Dragon Age: Chronicles of Tainted Blood
by Ravenna Snow
Summary: How far would the Warden go for duty? How much would the Warden risk for peace? She lives on borrowed time, yet yearns to repay that debt. For duty and for love, she would give it all - every drop of her tainted blood.
1. Prologue

A/N: My first attempt at a Dragon Age story. Please review and tell me what you think!

Warning: Rated for mature content and sexual themes.

Setting: This takes place nearly a year after Elissa and Alistair's wedding...

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**Dragon Age: Chronicles of Tainted Blood**

**Book I: The Winds of Change**

**Prologue**

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The winters of Ferelden could be described as mild.

Compared to the overwhelming blizzards and all-encompassing snows of Par Vollen, the atmosphere at Soldier's Peak resembled autumn. Here, even if there was no shelter to be had and no way to make fire for warmth, one could certainly survive on nothing but the strength of will alone. At least, that was what the hooded travelers kept telling themselves. The fact that the sporadic gusts of freezing wind and hail kept pushing them back was a thing of shame. They were Qunari – compared to the raw winters of their homeland, this small storm should not hinder them so.

There was something strange about this mountain, however – something that made their leader pause too often. Their heavy boots crushed the snow under their weight, the friction of metal against wet rock making too much noise for his liking. He was cautious. Back home, there were stories told of their leader facing an ambush in these lands by creatures known as Darkspawn. Was he wary of them still, even though the monsters had been pushed back in the last conflict? Although they were mildly curious, they remained silent. It did not occur to them to doubt their leader's judgment; he was their commander after all.

They trekked for miles through the moaning wind, wondering when the time would come to seek shelter from the pelting ice. At last, the leader held up a hand, motioning for the party of five to come to a stop. He pulled his hood back from his face, bright white hair quickly blending with the snow. His vivid, golden eyes scanned the surroundings, his shoulders stiff.

"What is it?" asked one of the warriors. "What do you see?"

The man did not reply and another warrior sent his partner a glare, elbowing him lightly in the side.

"Silence. Do not disturb our leader."

His partner grunted in reply and settled his gaze on the horizon, hoping to catch a glimpse of danger. All this walking and constant marching hardly worked to put him in a good mood. What he wanted was a nice blood bath – to feel his blade tearing through the flesh of his enemies. This endless stillness was not welcome. The leader had yet to fully explain what they were searching for. They'd set out from Por Vollen nearly three weeks ago, sent on a mission to the northern mountains of Ferelden by the Arishok himself. To what end? Only their leader knew, and it appeared that he was unwilling to share. His followers did not give it much thought – their duty was to fight, not ask questions.

While they were paused, the man reached for the water skin at his hip. Unscrewing the cap, he squeezed the thick hide only to give a disappointed grunt when he felt that the water within was frozen solid. If he was truly thirsty, he could have just eaten some of the snow, but for now his need was not so dire. His only regret was that he could not taste the pure water in the flask; it was the last of the supplies from their homeland. Looking around at the foreign landscape made him feel some weariness.

"Forward," the man in front of him suddenly said. They continued to march for several more hours up the mountain. The path that wound up became steeper and steeper. As they advanced farther up, the trees began to thin out until there were hardly any to block the view of the mountain ridge. That's when he noticed a large, towering structure made of stone standing on the very peak of the hill. Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was a mighty fortress. Was that their destination, then? Were there monsters in there? Were they going to fight? As they climbed, he swelled with pride, eager at the thought of serving his people. His hand was never far from his sword.

They were almost nearing the worn path to the drawbridge when he tripped on a large rock and dropped his flask. So startled was he that he nearly failed to regain his balance – something that he hoped went unnoticed by his partners. Cursing, he looked down, giving the offending boulder a good kick of frustration. Their leader, startled by his loud expletive, turned back to look at him. The man in front of him glared. Nodding respectfully in an apologetic gesture, he reached down to pick up his fallen equipment. A look of utter shock momentarily crossed his features before he cursed again, bending forward to brush snow away from the rock.

"Why have you stopped?" their leader asked impassively.

"This is not a rock…" he replied simply. His interest piqued, the leader moved forward, kneeling down beside his follower. Together, they moved away clumps of ice and snow until both men were taken aback to find a small body. Although the man was confused, the leader seemed to recognize the shape. His movements suddenly became more animated; he pushed his follower aside roughly.

"Leader…do you know what this creature is?"

He did not appear to hear him. Instead, he shifted mounds of snow away from the figure until he could move it from its frozen prison. There was a sudden light in the qunari's eyes; they seemed to glow a more intense gold. Confused by this reaction, the man's followers stood still, unused to seeing their leader so moved by something other than a battle.

"Kadan…" he whispered. The men all stiffened at the same time. Their leader had uttered a word so sacred to them that few had ever truly used it. Whatever this tiny creature was, it obviously held tremendous meaning to their commander. A small sound came from the half-frozen animal. It uttered syllables that were foreign, but could be recognized as words.

"…Sten…" was the sole thing they understood in the entire mess of garbled noise. How did this animal know their commander? The Qunari who had originally tripped over the body placed a hand on the leader's shoulder, his face a bit concerned. The enormous warrior shrugged it off, giving him a brief look of warning before picking up the half-dead thing and wrapping it in his cloak.

"We will proceed," he said simply. The men knew better than to question such an order.

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**To be continued...**


	2. Chapter 1

**Dragon Age: Chronicles of Tainted Blood**

**Chapter 1**

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For the first time in months, the King of Ferelden awoke with a silent scream on his lips.

He sat still for a few moments, sweat running down his bare chest, the nightmare still fresh in his mind. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. A chill that did not come from the open window made a shudder run up his spine. He could sill taste her name on his tongue, as if it was a tangible fruit – one as sweet and as forbidden as wishing that he would turn and find her sleeping by his side. Today, he would risk it – would risk whispering with a fool's hope –

"Elissa…"

He turned, his hand touching the spot where his wife should have lain; instead of warmth, his fingers touched cold linen, empty and barren as the hollow wound in his heart. Long strands of sand-colored hair fell forward to cover silver eyes full of sorrow. How long had it been? A week? Two weeks? He'd lost count of the days that had gone by without news of his beloved. His gaze traveled to the fireplace, where a cheerful flame lit up the room in a vivid hue of amber light. If only the fire could reflect his mood; it would have burned a blue more somber than any lament.

The night of her disappearance, there had also been a fire. The courtyard and a part of one of the supply sheds had nearly burned to ash by the time the flames could be brought under control. He'd been awakened by one of the servants; she was so terrified he could visibly see her shaking. Immediately, he went to wake Elissa, only to find that she was gone. He hadn't panicked; she was often restless during the night and sometimes went to train outside. Surely, their paths would cross, especially during an emergency like this one. Surely, she would come running to his side, asking if there was anything she could do.

He was still waiting.

After hours of pouring endless water on the flames, the fire was put out. Most of the supplies were beyond salvaging; the shed was burned down. There were a few animals that had perished in the barn. The courtyard was a mess – ash was everywhere. It would be days before things could be cleaned up. He assigned several men to investigate the cause of the disaster, but their results were inconclusive. It was Wynne that finally brought light to the situation. Upon closer inspection, she brought him disturbing news.

"This is no ordinary fire…" Her vivid, blue eyes seemed to burn into him. "There was magic at work here…"

The Templar in him stirred. Though he'd learned long ago that the hatred he'd been taught to feel for mages had no place in his life, he couldn't help but believe that there would forever be a barrier blocking his understanding and acceptance of the Circle. Wynne was hardly ever mistaken. She would not make such a statement unless she was certain of its truth. Wynne was the only mage allowed in the royal palace; if the flames indeed came from a magical source, it could only mean that there was someone else on the premises that meant them harm. Such a thing was more than possible. There were still hundreds of Logain's supporters who hadn't forgiven Elissa's execution of the man; and there were hundreds of others who held worse grudges. Their duties as the Grey Wardens had come before anything else; Elissa had been forced to make some difficult decisions. She had made some enemies in high places; to people of such stature, hiring an Apostate or two would have been too easy.

A knock at the door made him snap out of his brooding. He slid his feet over the side of the bed, running a hand through his hair. Letting out a sigh of exhaustion, he padded to the fire and bid the intruder to enter. Picking up a log from the metal stand next to the fireplace, he tossed it into the flames. The motion stirred up wisps of ash.

He expected a servant or the occasional knight, either coming to inform him of his appointments or coming to say that the search for his wife was proving fruitless. Each time they did, he felt as though a knife was being thrust into his chest. Was she alive? Was she hurt somewhere and in need of help? He knew how strong she was. The others believed that she'd been taken, but he couldn't come to terms with such a ridiculous idea. She was so strong – during their travels, she had defeated all sorts of monsters, had fought off _**Darkspawn**_ and the _**Arch-Demon**_. There was simply no feasible way that someone could have just taken her.

Unless they'd hurt her terribly to do so.

Unless that fire was a result of a struggle.

A powerful blood mage, a Malificar, could have possibly overpowered her, especially if he wasn't alone. At the thought of her lying injured, somewhere out of his reach, where he could do nothing to help her made him sick. Rage boiled just beneath the surface of his skin – the same sort of rage he'd felt at Ostagar and all the times he thought of Loghain's betrayal. Just the thought of the man's name made him grimace.

"Your Majesty…"

The voice caught him by surprise. He turned away from the fire.

Before him stood a man he had not expected to ever see again. His shocking, bright hair had grown longer; his eyes bore more lines around them. The normally carefree and jovial expression was absent from his face – a face that bore the features of hardship and concern. His armor – dark, black leather – was worn and somewhat ragged. He looked like he'd been through Hell and back.

"Zevran…" the King bit out past a lump in his throat. Although the assassin had sworn an oath to protect Elissa and to serve her for the rest of his life, seeing the ex- Crow in his chambers was – unsettling – to a degree. Instinctively, he took a step back, his eyes briefly sliding to his blade that rested against the side of his bed. The elf must have seen his obvious discomfort, for he raised his hands in the air and bowed. Letting out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, Alistair cleared his throat. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a knocker, Zevran. Not when there's a window so conveniently available." He expected the man to look up and smile, to say something to diffuse the heavy atmosphere in the room, but when the elf lifted his face to the King, his lips were set in a grim line.

"Your Majesty…" he paused, "Alistair…I must ask your forgiveness…"

The King wondered if he had missed something; or perhaps he was still half asleep. He hadn't seen the elf in months. Almost immediately after the coronation, the assassin had left Ferelden to return to his home in Antiva. He had been concerned that the Crows would still come after him, and did not want to put Elissa in unnecessary danger. Neither of them had thought that he would return, although he had implied that he might visit one day. Yet, here he was now – _**bowing**_ of all things and asking for forgiveness.

"I…that is…for what?"

"I am here about my Warden…" he said quietly, "…about the Queen."

It was misplaced; Alistair knew it as soon as he felt the emotion. But, try as he might, he could not dismiss the sudden, violent, flare of jealousy that nearly made him incapable of speech. Now was not the time for such things, but the child in him rebelled. Over the past months, being a monarch had taught him much about himself. He had come to realize that he had often seen the world from the eyes of a child – from the view of the small boy who had been sheltered in the Chantry. All he'd ever truly wanted was for someone to need him, to want him. In joining the Grey Wardens, duty had been flung upon him too quickly and too cruelly. He had been forced to restrain his desires and his wishes for too long. He had almost resigned himself to this when Elissa had flown into his life – like a warm wind full of the fiery conviction that he had never been able to nurture in himself. She had completed him – on the battlefield and by his side as his Queen. With her, he had felt that he could breathe again; and now, without her, he was suffocating.

"What about _**my**_ Queen?" he asked, his voice dangerously strained. He saw the elf flinch. At one point, Alistair had suspected that Elissa had been romantically involved with Zevran. At the time, their relationship had been uncertain. Seeing her smiling at another man, witnessing another trying to lift her spirits and keep her strong had pushed him to confessing his own feelings – perhaps just in time.

"I was following her for some time, but a few days ago I lost her trail in the mountains. I searched, but the snow was too thick…"

Alistair's mind went blank. Everything he'd just been thinking slipped away as sand would have through his fingers. He fell to one knee, grabbing the front of the assassin's tunic and pulling him upwards. He shook him roughly, his eyes taking on a faint glow.

"You've seen her! You know where she is! Is she safe? Is she hurt? Tell me!" He shook him again. "Speak!"

Despite the king's threatening demeanor, Zevran remained calm, his arms limp at his sides. It was as though he expected this rage and any physical abuse that would come with it.

"I believe that she was headed in the direction of the old Warden fortress. I lost her in the blizzards of the mountains, so I cannot be sure…"

"Was she _**alone**_? Were there others? Mages?" The elf hesitated. "Speak!"

"I cannot be certain. I was almost always half a day behind her. But the tracks suggested that there was at least one other with her." The King's strength seemed to leave him; Zevran dropped back down to the floor from his grip. It was at this moment, that the King saw the raw pain on the elf's face. He instantly regretted rounding on him in such a manner, when he was obviously facing his own demons of regret.

"I thought you left…" he said faintly, his face draining of all color.

"I did, for a time, but my…" a pause, "…my oath would not allow me to disappear so easily. I was worried that there would be dangers, so I returned."

"How long…"

"About two months ago."

"You didn't tell us…"

"I did not wish to make it known." He kneeled again. "I saw the Warden leaving the palace that night. She went into the barn, so I supposed that she was just unable to sleep as usual. I waited, but she did not emerge for nearly an hour. Eventually, I grew…concerned…and decided to take a closer look, when the shed burst into flames. By the time I got down there, she was gone and two horses were missing from their stalls. I would have come to you, Your Majesty, but there was no time. I had to follow them or risk losing their trail permanently."

"You could have said something!" the King suddenly exclaimed. "You could have sent word! A letter! A note!" He turned to the assassin with wild eyes. "_Anything!_" The elf lowered his head.

"I could not risk anyone finding out about my presence." He gritted his teeth. "Please…Alistair…we cannot waste any more time. If they are headed to the fortress, I am useless. I do not know the way, especially in such heavy storms, but I believe you do." When he looked back up, his eyes were grave. Never had Alistair seen such a serious look on the elf's face. At last, he realized what he was implying.

"You're right. She and I are the only ones who know our way up there." He fell back into a sitting position on the bed, his heart pounding wildly. He desperately tried to restrain the blazing storm in his head – to think rationally as a monarch should. Certainly, he could dispatch a group of men to go to Soldier's Peak, but they would be just as lost as Zevran had been. Doing that would waste even more precious time – time in which Elissa's life could be in danger. Yet, how could he leave Denerim? A King could not simply walk out of the palace, especially if taking Elissa had been someone's plan from the start. They would expect him to rush off to look for her, leaving the throne and the kingdom leaderless. He looked into the fire again, praying that the Maker would somehow send him a sign.

"Why are you hesitating?" came a voice from the doorway. Surprised and startled, both the King and the assassin looked back to see Wynne standing at the entrance to the chamber, staff in hand. Her eyes shone with wisdom; in that moment, Alistair would have given all his riches for just a little bit of it. "You've already decided what you will do, Alistair. Now it is time to make sure that you don't cause too much of a stir doing it."

At her words, Alistair looked shocked.

"You…did you hear what Zevran said?"

She smiled calmly. "No, not all of it. But I can tell when you've decided on something Alistair, and I know that there is no point trying to stop you."

He frowned. "Then tell me. What should I do? What is the right thing to do?"

Wynne looked thoughtful. "Long ago, I told Elissa that something like this could happen. I warned her that loving you may bring tragedy about, but," the mage laughed lightly, "as usual, she wanted to do things her own way. Eventually, she came to show me that your love was special. You two made even an old, jaded woman like me want to believe in humanity again." Her hands gripped the mage's staff more tightly. "I am here as your advisor. In accordance with my position, I must seriously warn you that what you plan to do will endanger everything you've worked so hard to build. These fiends will expect you to abandon everything to go on this journey, and I'm afraid that I cannot condone you dancing to their tune." The King stood up, a denial and protest already on his lips, but the mage held up a hand in a firm gesture that commanded silence. "I said I cannot condone it, but that doesn't mean that I won't help you." Both elf and man looked relieved.

"But what can we do?" Alistair asked. Wynne suddenly turned disapproving eyes to Zevran.

"First, he must tell us the rest of the story. There is something he is withholding from you." The elf looked ashamed then groaned.

"Zevran?"

"I…spoke to the mage…" he admitted.

"What?" the King looked outraged.

"Please wait!" the assassin said quickly, raising his hands in surrender. "It was a hooded man. He said that if I did not want the Warden to be harmed, that I should tell the King to send men in the opposite direction of where they were headed." There was a long silence. "Naturally, he will not harm her – at least, this is what I believe. The mage could not have gone to such lengths to take the Warden away, only to kill her now." He looked up. "They are heading in the direction of the old fortress, this I swear."

Finally, Wynne nodded, seeing that Alistair was still too emotional to speak.

"Well, that settles our first step. We need to do as this person asks, and send a company riding west while we progress north…" she continued, but Alistair found himself unable to listen. His head was reeling; his fingers numb. Just hours ago, he had still been lost in the agony of not knowing whether he would see his wife again. Now, it turned out that she was alive – that someone had known about it all this time – and that her life was still in danger. There could be no doubt that a Malificar was responsible for her kidnapping, which made finding the motive for his actions all the more difficult. Malificar often acted on their own agendas, and could not be counted on to display predictable patterns of behavior. Should the mage learn that the men sent west were merely a distraction, he could suddenly change direction or decide that one Grey Warden's life was not as valuable as he had thought.

"…ask the Arl to do this. What do you think Alistair?"

The young King, who had been completely absorbed in his own thoughts and had not heard a word that was spoken simply gave Wynne a blank look. She must have seen the desperation in his eyes – the way his silver orbs overflowed with confusion and fear. Her eyebrows knitted together and she pursed her lips, lifting her staff and promptly hitting the ground with it. The sudden sound caught his attention.

"I…don't know…that is…"

"Your Majesty…" she began in an icy tone, "If you wish to save our Warden, then I suggest you start by pulling yourself together."

"I'm sorry," he replied pitifully, rubbing his temples. "This is all happening so fast. I just…"

At his words, the mage's eyes softened to some degree. "Do not despair. She is strong, and she has made all of us so." She placed a hand on Alistair's shoulder. "We will find her, and we will find who has done this." With a small nod, she stepped back. It was all the comfort she could afford to give. From this moment, he would be required to prove that he deserved his own share of success, just as everyone else had to. She would be by his side – as would Zevran she was sure – but as their King, he would stand alone in the ultimate fight. It was his destiny as ruler and as one of the last Grey Wardens of Ferelden.

"I was saying that we could ask Arl Eamon to rule in your stead while you are absent." At this, the King looked worried.

"But, I thought you said that no one must know of my absence…"

Wynne chuckled. "I may be old, but I still have a few tricks up my sleeve. I have a friend in the circle. She is most proficient with illusions. I will call her here and she will place a glamour on the Arl. He will stay in the palace and only make an appearance when absolutely necessary."

"Can we trust this…mage?"

Wynne looked a bit offended. "Not all mages are Malificar, Alistair. I would have thought that you'd learned that by now."

"I'm sorry…I didn't mean it like that. It's just…"

Zevran interrupted him. "Your Majesty, please allow me to come with you. I am sure that I will be of use to you still." His voice was full of urgency.

"Take him, Alistair, but it can only be the two of you. Any more may attract unnecessary attention."

"We should leave as soon as possible, and travel only by night," the assassin said. "And we will need to cut through the forest. The roads will most certainly be watched."

"How soon can the mage be here, Wynne?" the King inquired.

"She will need at least three days to get here."

"You are certain she will come?" In response to the man's question, the mage's look sobered.

"She will come." Her eyes settled on one of the rings on his fingers – a small, simple gold band. "Give me that ring – quickly." He obeyed without question. In a swift movement, she withdrew a small dagger from her sleeve.

"I do love a woman who can conceal," the assassin began. Wynne frowned disapprovingly and he flinched. "Perhaps another time."

"Hold out your hand," she said. The moment the King's hand was in reach, she pricked his finger with the tip of the dagger.

"Ouch!" When he would have withdrawn his hand, she held it firmly, pressing the ring to the small spot of blood on Alistair's thumb. The King pouted. Zevran politely hid a smile. It was a relief to see that Alistair hadn't fundamentally changed much, even after everything they'd gone through. Wynne's fingers glowed green for a moment before she released him.

"Alright. Now put this back on and don't ever take it off. It will let me know where you are, even over great distances." She watched her King carefully, noting how his eyes had regained some of their gleam. The past two and some odd weeks had been hellish, to say the least. The young man had been wandering between responsibilities with all the demeanor of the undead, only speaking when he was spoken to and distracted enough to miss entire conversations. At first, she'd had trouble understanding his behavior. Shouldn't duty always come first? Shouldn't responsibility weigh heavier on the mind than fickle emotions? That's what she had always been taught in the Circle. Any mage who was worth anything knew and understood that their personal desires always came after what needed to be done for the benefit of the whole.

Yet, as she watched Alistair over their time together during the Blight, and as she watched him struggling to keep himself together in the storm of uncertainty after Elissa's disappearance, she could have sworn that she could see the massive weight of responsibility giving him a permanent slouch. At least, when the Warden was with him, his face was more lively, his demeanor more confident. It was as if, with her disappearance, she had taken the sun from his eyes, the color from his skin, the life from his heart. He was an empty shell, and Wynne could no more let that go on than she could walk away from a storm that she could prevent.

Seeing him look a little more relieved and alert, she knew that she was making the right choice. It would cost them, she was certain, but the price could not be any steeper than the thought of Elissa's death or Alistair's recession into bleak despair. If she had to be honest with herself, she could admit that she was also angry. Had she been younger, more hot-headed, and less responsible, she may have insisted that she come along with them. Despite appearances, she also fretted for the life of their leader – the woman who had guided them to victory against the massive horde of Darkspawn. How could it be otherwise? They'd faced death together too many times to count, and in the treacherous Fade, it was Elissa who had allowed her to move past her regrets and sorrow. Yes – if only things were a little different. For now, however, she would leave the adventures to the young; it was time to put her faith in hope and to do what she could for the situation while the King was gone.

Alistair must have sensed that she was deep in thought. He caught her steady gaze, his grey eyes softening. "Wynne…I don't know how to thank you."

She smiled and patted him on the arm. "You can thank me by returning safely with our Warden. Ferelden needs you, as do your friends. Do not forget, Alistair, that we still do not know who or what is responsible for what's happened. Trust no one."

"Yes, I will keep that in mind." He smiled – perhaps his first true expression of relief in nearly two weeks. "As always, your wisdom serves to shame me." He sighed and looked at Zevran. "Get ready. We leave in several hours, before dawn breaks."

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To be continued...

A/N: I imagine some of the characters to look a little differently than their common representations. Zevran in this story looks more like his "concept art" picture, while Alistair has longer hair that is more brown than blond. Both he and Elissa have the characteristic silver eyes of the wardens as well. If you are interested to see some of my personal representations of the characters, you can visit my deviantart account and look in my screenshot gallery. I've made new face morphs for Sten, Alistair and my version of Elissa.

Deviantart:

nephraj . deviantart . com (without the spaces)


	3. Chapter 2

**Dragon Age: Chronicles of Tainted Blood**

**Chapter 2

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The tunnels were dark.

The air smelled of wet earth and ageless stone.

The ground was soggy beneath her bare feet – soaked through with crimson red.

Was it blood? She couldn't be sure.

The darkness ahead kept her from looking down at her feet – it made her fear doing so with every fiber of her being. She felt that if she were to look down, she would look down into the chasm of her failures; she felt that she would be forced to see all of her mistakes.

So, instead, she looked ahead into the all-encompassing shadow. There was promise there, promise of a void that she wanted to drown in. What was beyond that veil of black? Was it death? Was the Maker waiting there – ready to claim her soul for his own? Or was it just darkness? Was it just another Fade?

She stepped forward, reaching out her hand.

Her fingers brushed the velvet emptiness – the cold of the endless vacuum nipping at her fingertips as the cruel bite of winter would have in the Wilds. Immediately, she felt an overwhelming loneliness; there was nothing here – not even death could linger in such an empty place. Looking up, she saw the ceiling – stone chiseled into carvings of ancient times. Dimly, she recognized this place. In all of her travels, this was the one place she feared the most.

The Deep Roads…

An endless maze comprised of hundreds of miles of empty tunnels, full of Darkspawn and monsters from the worst nightmares of the living.

Yet, despite her fear, her feet kept moving. Despite her wish to stop, her legs moved her deeper and deeper into the void. She could hear her heart beat echoing off the walls – an eerie sound comprised of painful solitude and an agonizing loss of hope. There was no stopping it.

As she floated through the bowels of the world, she could hear voices all around her.

Beautiful voices…angry voices…pleading voices…desperate voices…

She knew them all – each and every one.

They were those she had supported, those she had stepped on, those she had abandoned, and those she had not been able to save in her quest to fulfill her duty as the Warden. Back then, it was all that mattered. She had been desperate to drown out the screaming of her heart in the silverite shell that was responsibility. For a while, it screamed and screamed, but it soon grew hoarse until – eventually – it faded away…

She grew callous – cold and unfeeling. Her decisions were made without emotion; she was guided only by logic. In the Circle tower, she had preserved the lives of the mages and the First Enchanter, but only because she felt that they would be needed. Had the Templars been of more use, she would have left the mages to their fate. At Redcliffe, she had taken the life of a boy's mother, unwilling to lose time risking the life of the Arl and his support for her quest. In the Fade, she had made a bargain with a demon – allowing it to live in return for strength to finish her ultimate duty. In the forests, she had led an attack against the Dalish, allowing the werewolves to tear them to shreds before her eyes. Why? Because she believed they were stronger than the elves; in the end, their strength could decide the difference between victory and defeat.

And what of the Dwarves?

In Orzammar, she had helped put a man on the throne that she'd known would be a tyrant. His deceitful and spiteful nature was obvious from the beginning, yet she had given him the crown. With her own hands, she had – perhaps – paved the road for the suffering of many. Why? Because this King would lead a stronger campaign against the Darkspawn; because he had the unofficial support of the Legion of the Dead.

Perhaps the sole thing she could not do against her nature was to defile the sacred ashes of Andraste. Though drinking the blood of the dragon and undergoing the ceremony of the cultists would have given her even greater power, she could not find it in herself to bring any harm to something so pure and good…

Was it because her heart was still screaming? Was it because she was sworn to protect good in the end, despite the means she had to take to do so? Or was it because she still held hope for some sort of divine redemption? Such a notion was almost laughable. She was dying – there was no time for regret, only time for planning out her every step, to make sure that they years she had left would not be wasted. For a time, she saw herself as someone who was already dead – given a single chance to finish everything they needed to before they were pulled back into the void.

At least, until _he _came. They'd been traveling together for months; he'd always been there. But, somehow, she had never really noticed. It wasn't until he had forcefully pulled her aside and confessed his feelings that she felt her eyes opening for the first time in ages. He'd kissed her, embraced her, accepted her as she was – fallible and ultimately flawed. Into him, she poured all her fears and insecurities; in his arms, her heart had found its voice again.

Now, as she continued aimlessly floating in the dark, she wished more than anything that she could see his face. Was it possible to be addicted to another person? Could the addiction be as tangible as one to Lyrium? How else could this feeling be explained? – this terrible weight in the lungs, this horrid acid in her gut? When he wasn't by her side, she felt his absence as a heavy burden. Though the air was free of him, she felt as though she was trapped in a small box, unable to move or think or breathe.

_He will not accept you…_ came a drifting voice. _He has never accepted you…as you have used others, so he has used you for his own gain…who could love a heartless monster like yourself – tainted and beyond redemption for your damning choices? _

She shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself.

Was this a dream? Or perhaps a nightmare…did it even matter? The voices were all real. The regret she felt was more tangible than the agony inside her soul. They were the words of reason – the words of truth and logic; the words that she had longed to say for far too long.

Her eyes closed.

The tunnels were dark.

The air smelled of wet earth soaked in the blood of her enemies, her victims, and those she had left behind…

Here, there was only stillness, and the dripping of her tainted blood…

* * *

~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~

* * *

The fortress was the same as he remembered it – bleak and barren as a wasteland or a desert. Hadn't the Wardens wanted to restore this place? Wasn't it supposed to be a sanctuary for the time when the Order was rebuilt? Looking around, the Sten wondered what had happened here. The stone was crumbling; the wood was rotting; the wind smelled of old death – the same scent that one could discern in a tomb or a burial ground. He had come here expecting to find warriors, but had found only the shadow of an unfulfilled goal.

His eyes traveled to the long table in the center of the main Hall, where he had lain the Warden to rest. She was sick with frost fever – he'd seen plenty of such cases in his homeland. These…humans…were fragile – too much so. Although he was far from being a healer, he knew that the one thing she needed was warmth. Some time ago, he had sent his men to search for a place that they could start a fire. Finding any kindling that wasn't soaked with snow or ice was nearly impossible, especially with the roof of the castle being full of gaps and holes.

"Alistair…"

His sensitive hearing picked up on her voice, even though it was as faint as the chirping of a fledgling bird. He walked to her side, briefly touching her frozen fingers. It was not in his nature to be concerned for anything. If a warrior died in battle, it was his fate; if a Qunari died from illness, he had simply lost the struggle against the inevitable. All of them had a place – it was the way of the Qun. Every death happened as it should; every life played out as it needed to. Pride and happiness came from finding and knowing that place – from fulfilling the role that was assigned. Though, naturally, he allowed himself to briefly mourn a fallen comrade, he knew that things went on – _life_ moved on. There would be other warriors – other comrades and other partners.

But…

When it came to this woman, things were always skewed.

He had called her Kadan – a title that represented something as precious as his own heart. She had given him a chance to redeem his honor; she had found his sword and his soul; she had stopped a Blight; and she had made him stronger. She was a Grey Warden – a warrior of legend, one of the last of her kind. He knew that to be true; as soon as he had seen the empty fortress, he had known that nothing had changed for her and the man called Alistair. Though they had the support of an entire kingdom, they still came to the battlefield alone.

To lose her now would be…unpleasant. To watch as a illness ravaged her body would be…regrettable.

If it was war – if war and enemies stood against her sword, he would gladly watch her prove her honor, either with a victory or a noble death.

But this…this was most disagreeable. As the Sten, he could not allow it. She was Kadan, and she would live…

After what seemed like hours, one of the warriors returned with news. A room had been found that was not damaged. It had its own place for a fire, and the wood was a bit rotten but would burn with enough coaxing. With more care than his men had ever seen him show, their leader picked up the creature and took her to the place they'd found. One of the Qunari put his cloak down on the pile of wet straw in the corner, while the others worked to start a flame. It took some time, but the fire finally roared to life, immediately giving all of the inhabitants much needed warmth. Soundlessly and wordlessly, the Sten went to sit in the corner, his golden eyes carefully watching the Warden shivering in the cloak he'd wrapped her in. The leather she wore must be soaked through – the cloth beneath was certainly frigid if not frozen against her skin. This was unacceptable; it would only make things worse. But, what options did he have? He knew what had to be done, but he hesitated.

As if sensing that their leader was in a sour mood, the other men moved closer to the fire, away from the creature. They warmed their hands until they could move their fingers and hung their water skins on the stone mantle until the water there could be consumed. They were curious. What was this thing that the Sten had called Kadan? They recognized that it was sick. From time to time, it would move around and speak strange words; even if they did not understand them, they knew that they rang with fear and sorrow. Finally, unable to hold back, one of the warriors turned to face his leader; it was the same man who had found the animal in the snow.

"_Leader, could this be one of the man-creatures we have heard about?" _

For a long time, the Sten was silent. Then –

"_Yes."_

The man scratched the back of his head.

"_Then it is familiar to you?" _

"_Yes."_

The men shared glances between themselves. Another warrior spoke –

"_It is dying…"_

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. The man who had posed the question understood that he had chosen his words poorly. He looked down, then looked around the room, feeling unsettled with the knowledge that he had said something to annoy their leader. The water in the skin sloshed in his hand and he suddenly got an idea.

"_Maybe, it needs water?"_

The leader's eyes flickered to the skin for a moment before settling back on the shivering form.

"_Warm it by the flame." _

The Qunari obeyed. After he felt that the hide was almost hot to the touch, he walked to the leader and knelt, presenting him with the flask. Again, wordlessly, the Sten took it from his hand and walked to the man-creature's side. Carefully, he lifted it into a sitting position.

"Warden…you must drink now."

The men exchanged glances again.

"_Leader, you speak their language?"_

"_Yes,"_ he answered. Seeing that it would be useless to try and get any more information from him, the warriors all turned back to the fire, feeling distinctly uncomfortable with seeing their leader showing such strange behavior.

The Sten felt their gazes move away from him and felt some relief. He still wasn't sure how he felt about his men seeing him assisting a human. They were far too simple-minded to doubt him, and far too loyal to believe he might be in the wrong, but the simple thought that they could briefly question his actions made him grit his teeth. Frustrated with himself for feeling this way, he decided that it was useless to think of such things at such a dire time. Later, perhaps, when the Warden was no longer dying in his presence, he could analyze his views on her existence.

"Warden, you must drink."

He shook her as gently as he could, reminding himself – again – that humans broke easily. After a few moments, her eyelashes fluttered and he was met with a pair of startling, silver eyes more bright and pure than any metal he had ever seen. He'd almost forgotten how intense those eyes could be – the eyes that only true Grey Wardens possessed. They glowed dimly – a far cry from the color they had been all those months ago during the Blight. The dark pupils within were large, the vision they gave obviously distorted. The woman looked into nothingness and the Sten realized that she must still be lost within her dreams. Supporting her shoulders with his upper arm, he took one of her hands in his own and wrapped her fingers around the neck of the water skin.

"Drink. You will not survive long without water."

On some level, she must have understood. Her whole body shook with tremors of cold. As he helped her tip the flask back so she could drink, his hand brushed against her leather tunic. As he had suspected, it was icy to the touch – and wet. Several sets of thoughts drifted through his mind. To leave her in those garments would be unwise and dangerous; to take her out of the same garments could prove to be more unsettling – he pushed the thought away with vehemence. But, what if the human was to remove the garment on her own – without his presence? There were extra sets of clothing in their packs. Surely, even the rough, sheep's wool would be preferable to soaked leather and linen.

"…Sten, is that you?"

Her voice tore through the veil of his frustrating thoughts. Although she had whispered, her voice seemed unnaturally loud with the echo in this stone place.

"Yes."

"Where are we?" He supposed that her vision seemed more focused now. She moved her head to look around, her teeth chattering.

"The old Warden fortress atop the mountains."

She shuddered, gripping the cloak tighter around her in a futile attempt to preserve body heat. He was at the end of his patience. A frown marred his lips, the crease between his brows quickly growing more prominent.

"The tunnels…where are they? I can't see them any more…"

Dismissing the last statement as a product of delusion, he turned to his men.

"_You will proceed outside the door. I will join you shortly." _There was no hesitation to be had on the part of the warriors. If their leader commanded them to do something, they followed his orders to the letter. Without a single sound, they stood and stepped outside, closing the heavy wooden door behind them. With his audience gone, he settled his glare on the woman.

"Can you stand?" She nodded vaguely and he helped her to her feet. The cloak slipped from her shoulders and he finally noticed that her leather tunic was torn in places, as though an animal had sunk its claws into the thing. Fortunately, he did not see any immediate wounds, although her skin looked burned in places. After making sure that she was leaning against the wall, he picked up his pack off the floor and briskly took out a set of wool garments. He handed them to her, expecting her to understand what he wanted. She first looked at the clothes then at him, her eyes devoid of comprehension. "Your clothing is making you ill," was his explanation. At last, a spark entered those grey orbs. She nodded and took the clothes. Satisfied, he began to make his way outside when she weakly grabbed the edge of his sleeve.

"Your k-knife…p-please…"

Just as his own men did not question him, neither did he question her request. She had been his leader for nearly four seasons, after all. He had learned to trust her judgment – for the most part. Reaching to his side, he unsheathed a deadly, double-edged dagger and gave it to her with the hilt facing her palm.

"Knock when you are finished," he said simply before stepping outside the door.

* * *

~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~

* * *

As soon as the Qunari was definitely out of range, Elissa allowed herself the luxury of falling gracelessly to the ground. She cursed her shaking hands and chattering teeth. Her throat was clenched so tightly that it hurt, the saliva in her mouth feeling as thick as molasses. As quickly as she could, she tore through her ruined armor with Sten's knife, feeling an almost instantaneous relief when it was away from her skin. The room spun wildly around her, tilting up and down – sideways and backwards. Her dream was still vivid in her mind, the darkness of the Deep Roads feeling as real as the rough texture of the clothes in her arms.

Her thoughts were muddled and hazy; she almost felt as though a part of her was still trapped in that dream. Something whispered to her – a warning from her instinct – but she ignored it in favor of practicality. Slowly, her memory began to return, though it was broken into confusing pieces of pictures and events. There had been a man – a mage – and a fire. He had attacked her and there had been a scuffle. Things seemed to be going well until another man appeared behind her and had trapped her in a Spirit Cage. The pain had been horrid. Her brain hadn't been able to withstand the agony and she had lost consciousness. After that, things were blurry. She supposed that she had awakened at some points during the journey, but she had never truly been awake. Any time she could regain some sense of awareness, the Cage returned and she was hurtled back into a world of pain. The next thing she could recall was waking up in the snow, seeing Sten's glowing yellow eyes right above her face.

Truly, he had saved her. She would have frozen to death on this mountain had he not come along. That, in itself, was a mystery she had yet to work through. Why had he returned? When he'd left for his homeland, she had felt some regret, wondering what it would have been like to follow him to the home of the Qunari. Alistair had needed her, however – as Ferelden did. And if she had to admit it, she had needed her husband just as much. As one of the last two Grey Wardens, her duty was first to Ferelden. What she wanted had stopped being important the moment she awakened from the Joining. At this thought, she felt the weight of reality finally drop upon her; memories of her dream resurfaced. She would have lost herself to it again had an icy draft not caressed her naked spine. Shaking her head, she forced herself to think of the present.

She continued working as fast as she could, desperate to feel the dry material of the Qunari clothes against her flesh. She tossed the scraps of leather into an unused corner of the room, stumbling to the fire and huddling against the warm stones. Finally, she let herself look around, taking in the broken stone walls that she recognized to be a part of Warden's Keep. The sight made her feel ashamed. It had been her and Alistair's little dream to restore this place to what it had been once; however, soon after the coronation, they had gotten caught up in the growing unrest in Ferelden. Although the Arch Demon was long dead, and the Darkspawn only made occasional appearances in the Wilds and the depths of Orzammar, there were other threats rising up in various places around the country. Rebellions were staged; riots had to be quelled. There were rumors that a Malificar cult was forming in the East, towards the edges of the Brecilian Forest. A series of mysterious murders was burning through the countryside; humans and elves alike were either disappearing or were found dead in their own homes. In light of all this, the restoration of Warden's Keep had fallen into the background of all things.

There was a knock at the door. Sten stepped into the room. She struggled to her feet. His height was intimidating enough while she was standing – she did not wish to feel even more dwarfed than she already was. Nodding, she gave him a wan smile.

"I thank you for this…"

The warrior, meanwhile, was somewhat taken aback by the sight. The woman almost resembled a drowned rat. Her bright, golden hair hung in wet hanks down against her face. The clothes he'd given her were – naturally – much too large. The sleeves of the shirt hung past her fingers, almost all the way down to her shins, while the pants looked like they might cause a hazardous situation if she were to take even one step forward.

"Although…I may need a rope or something…" she pointed to the waistband of the pants, which she held up with one hand. He looked thoughtful for a moment before walking to his pack and pulling out a thick cord. "Yes, that will do nicely…" she said breathlessly, feeling more weak than she had ever felt in her life. After tying the cord around her waist, she slumped back down close to the fire, feeling her eyes beginning to droop.

"Rest, Warden. You will tell me your story when you have recovered your strength."

Helpless to stop herself, she lay down on the stone floor, feeling the roughness of the rock grating against her cheek. In that moment, she didn't care. Sleep seemed like the most blissful of all ideas and she soon found herself spiraling down into the darkness once again.

* * *

...

* * *

**To be continued...**

**A/N: I sincerely thank those of you who read this and have added this story to your alert list. Your support means a lot me and I hope that you will continue reading this and enjoying it as much as I enjoy writing it. Thank you and see you again soon!  
**


	4. Chapter 3

**Dragon Age: Chronicles of Tainted Blood**

**Chapter 3

* * *

**

Two hooded shapes stood in the forest, nearly invisible under the cover of night.

"How many times did you stab him?"

"Six…maybe seven…"

"Was that really necessary? I mean, you don't think one time would have done the trick?"

"I had to make sure he was dead…"

"And…you don't think he would have died from a back stab to the heart with a poisoned dagger?"

The smaller man shrugged. "Anything is possible…" His tone was almost amused.

"And what about his legs? Did you _have_ to do that?"

A chuckle. "I had to make sure he wouldn't walk away."

"How you possibly think he could walk away from _that_?"

At this final question, the shorter figure lowered his hood, revealing a shock of nearly white hair and pointed ears. There was some frustration on his face.

"Your Majesty, we traveled together for all those months. Are you really going to start doubting my skill now?"

The taller traveler snorted – a sound of annoyance and impatience.

"I'm not doubting _you_, Zevran, merely your sanity. You really do enjoy killing, don't you?"

"And if I do?" was the dark reply. There was an uncomfortable silence. For a time, the only sound that could be heard was the rushing of the river, overflowing with water from the recent rain.

"Anyway…" the taller man continued, clearing his throat.

"We need to get rid of the body," the elf said simply. He stepped forward and kicked the corpse at his feet hard enough to make it turn over. The man's face was frozen in a look of horror. Upon seeing it, Alistair shuddered. Elissa had made quite in ally in the Antivan elf. Despite his inability to hold a serious conversation, his constant jokes, and his incurable womanizing, the Crow was death itself with a blade. He watched him handle the body of the man who had tried to take their lives; without any sign of remorse, the elf kicked it into the rushing tides of the river. Grabbing a few leaves from the ground he cleaned off his dagger, sheathing it back into its case strapped to his back. Alistair looked away. Despite everything, he still couldn't come to terms with such heartless treatment of the dead.

They'd been traveling for nearly four days now. At first, their journey was going smooth. Zevran had decided that it would be convenient to follow the river north. They would have a constant supply of water, and there were plenty of animals that came to the river to drink. Both of them were dressed light; the King felt naked without his armor. He was used to heavy plate, not flimsy leather. He almost envied the elf's confidence in battle. In all their time together, he had never seen him wearing anything but light armor. When Elissa had brought a set of chainmail back to camp – Dalish in make – he had adamantly refused to wear it. It would slow him down, he had explained, and for a Crow every second counted.

It was on the third day that the assassins started attacking. One by one, they came – during the day and during the night. The man today was their fifth kill. Obviously, someone was tracking them. He worried ceaselessly about his wife; if they _were_ being tracked, that meant her captors knew about their deception. How would they respond? Would they continue heading in the same direction? Or would they change course and make this entire journey into a useless trek across the countryside?

"_You_, need to relax, Your Majesty."

Alistair glared. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The elf chuckled. "If you'd like, I could recite some Antivan poetry."

"I think I'll pass, thanks…"

The air grew colder. No longer did the breeze serve to cool his sweat – instead, it made him shiver. They'd brought warmer clothes with them, and after nearly half a day, they were forced to don their sweaters and thick cloaks. Zevran stopped often, kneeling close to the ground, inspecting the surrounding foliage, and frowning when he had to double back to look at another part of the path. To Alistair, it looked like he was taking too much of an interest in broken twigs and torn leaves. He had never been much of a tracker, and thus had no choice but to completely rely on Zevran's intuition. It was maddening and he often found himself feeling impatient when he had to stand around and wait.

On the evening of the fourth day of their travels, the elf suddenly stopped, his face taking on an expression of wariness. When Alistair would have asked him what was wrong, the elf held a finger to his lips in a motion for him to be silent. He gestured behind them with his eyes, and a cold sweat ran down the nape of the King's neck. He understood immediately; they were being followed. It wasn't much of a surprise; anyone with enough gall to kidnap the Queen would certainly not allow a few deaths to stop them. Assassins were expendable. It was something that Zevran had said often during the Blight. Those in his profession either obeyed orders or died trying. There were no options for failure.

They decided to make camp and make it look like they had gone to sleep. Alistair hadn't planned on closing his eyes, but the exhaustion from the trip eventually caught up to him. He drifted into a restless half-sleep, where images of Elissa's lifeless body haunted him until he thought he would scream. An abrupt sound awakened him, tearing him from his nightmare with as much force as a pulling carriage. Zevran knelt by his side, his hand covering the King's mouth while his other gripped his favored dagger. Already, Alistair could smell the poison on the blade and did not envy the attacker who would come. As a habit from the days of the Blight, he slept with his own knife under his pillow. Slowly, silently, he reached up and gripped its familiar hilt, his senses flaring outward.

A twig snapped somewhere close by.

He heard a few footsteps, and only had a split second to twist around before his knife connected with the downward swing of a long sword. Bracing his hand with his forearm, he grunted as he used all his strength to push his attacker off of him. Zevran wasted no time. With a speed that made the King dizzy, he jumped forward, grabbing the attacker and rolling away into the darkness. Alistair struggled to his feet, wildly looking around. The forest had gone eerily silent. The only sound around him was his breath, leaving his lips in a light steam that glowed white in the light of the moon.

"Zevran?" he whispered hoarsely, fearing the worst.

There was the sound of a struggle then a pained curse. He heard something being dragged and nearly jumped out of his skin when the elf stepped into the moonlight, hauling a man's body behind him. His dagger was sticking out of their attacker's gut, blood oozing from the wound. Alistair glared, unsure whether he was angry at the assassin for making him think he was dead, or for the look of utter pleasure on his face as he wiped blood from his cheek.

"Don't drag that _thing_ into camp!" He growled. "Unless you're planning to mutilate it some more, in which case you should warn me ahead of time so I can give you some privacy." At the King's angry ranting, the assassin smiled.

"Actually, I was thinking of something along the lines of interrogation." His white teeth glinted in the night. "Mutilation is only a rare past-time, not a hobby." With that said, he pulled the body closer to the dead fire in the middle of their camp. The man groaned and opened his eyes. With a calm smile, Zevran crouched down next to him. "So, how are you feeling? You cannot move, yes?" The assailant looked away, his mouth set in a mutinous line. Perhaps he thought that he had the resolve not to speak, but Alistair knew that that wouldn't last long. He'd witnessed how cruel the elf could be first hand; the man would talk or he would suffer greatly. In response to his victim's rebellious gesture, Zevran unsheathed his other dagger, twirling it deftly in his palm.

"While you are comfortable, let's start with an easy question. Who sent you here?"

Silence. The elf smiled again shook his long bangs out of his face, running a finger down the black tattoo on the side of his face. In an abrupt motion, he leaned forward, grasping the hilt of the dagger that was embedded in the man's stomach. There was a sickening crunch as he twisted it. Although the victim yelped in agony, he did not say a word.

"I am willing to be civil, if you are, my friend. There's no need to make this harder than it already is…" he paused in mid-sentence. "Although, who am I kidding? Please, go ahead – make my day." Another twist of the dagger made Alistair feel queasy. Was such cruelty really necessary? Like a flash of lightning, the image from his nightmare flashed before his eyes – Elissa's lifeless body, lying somewhere on the road, surrounded by a pool of blood. He turned away from Zevran and his amusement, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. They needed information – badly. If the kidnapper had changed course, they could not afford to waste time traveling in the wrong direction. Steeling his resolve, he stepped forward until he was standing over the man and the crouched elf. Zevran had carved several interesting patterns on his victim's chest.

"Glad you could join us, Your Majesty. I think that our guest has something to say, no?" He chuckled. Alistair felt his stomach churn. The man turned his head and spat on the ground, his saliva red with blood.

"You are a Crow – a bastard traitor!" he bit out. "But even traitors should know that we would rather die than talk." The elf looked thoughtful, tapping his cheek with the tip of his dagger. He lightly scraped it against his unshaven chin.

"Hmm…well, normally that would be the case, but…" His lips turned up in a grin. "I can usually tell by looking at people…" He leaned down and whispered, "…I can tell the screamers from the ones who are a waste of time. And _you_, partner, are definitely a screamer."

Nearly two hours later, Zevran's theory was proven correct. The man caved in after the elf had carved his skin into a canvas full of Dalish symbols. Alistair forced himself to watch. This was for Elissa's sake, he kept reminding himself. At some point, he had caught a glimpse of something behind the bare thread of sanity in the elf's eyes. He wasn't doing this just for pleasure, either. If his suspicions were correct, the elf still held certain feelings for Elissa, and if they were anywhere near as strong as his own, Alistair knew that he would go to great lengths to save her life.

"T-there was a man…in a red cloak…his f-face was c-covered…" the victim chocked out. Blood ran down his lips, which were cut open in places.

"Did he say where you needed to report?" When the man hesitated, the elf pushed the dagger in his stomach farther in.

" Y-yes!" the assailant hissed. "T-the coastlands…m-mountain pass…s-somewhere near Highever!"

It was all the information they needed. Satisfied, Zevran smirked and placed his other dagger against the man's throat, slitting it open in one stroke. Red spurted everywhere – all over the grass and into the assassin's face. His bright hair was stained with it. With a few gurgled sounds, the man's eyes rolled back into his head and he died. Not wasting a minute, the elf tore his dagger out of the body, wiping it on the ground. After sheathing both his weapons, he picked up the corpse with surprising strength and made his way towards the river.

* * *

~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~ ~XOXOX~

* * *

Alistair and Zevran did not speak for nearly a day. If the elf needed to change direction, he used silent gestures to communicate his intent. What had happened with the last assassin sat like a thorn between them. Alistair did not need to voice his disapproval for the elf to feel it keenly. The man had always been too soft in many ways. That was why, at first, he could not understand how a woman like Elissa could love him as she did. She had a powerful and dominant personality that shone through every decision that she made. Her leadership held them all together and gave them a resolve that none of them could have developed on their own.

From the moment Zevran met her, he had known that their personalities were similar. They would both do what was necessary no matter the strides that needed to be taken; they would both put duty above themselves. Yet, every time he tried to show her that, she went to Alistair. He could make her smile as no one else could. With him, her eyes softened and grew gentle – there was an aura of contentment around her. How could it be? – he had wondered. How could someone as soft and innocent as Alistair have any effect on a woman like her?

It had infuriated him – almost to the point where he wanted to just forcefully make her understand how he felt. They were the same height, and she was strong, but he knew a few holds that would have easily left her at his mercy. Fortunately – or perhaps not so fortunately – for him, she was just as curious about him as he had been about her. After her decision to support the werewolves' cause against the Dalish, he had been angry enough to shout at her. She had pressed her point, however, and he had admired how deeply her sense of duty and responsibility ran. He'd understood that, deep down in a place that she hid away from the world, she regretted her decision as much as he despised it. Seeing her thus, for the first time, he had been unable to stop himself from kissing her. One thing had led to another, and they shared an encounter in the forest that he could not forget until this day. Both of them had dismissed it as a result of adrenaline and the residual frenzy of the battle, although he only did so to relieve her of the obvious guilt that she felt.

After things settled down, he had watched – helplessly – as she returned to Alistair's side, her eyes shining with the same warmth that he so wished she would send his way. It was Leliana that had noticed his suffering first. As a Bard, she had worked closely with Assassins; she almost felt like a long-lost sister. She often stayed up with him, discussing her years as a Bard while he shared his own experiences with the Crows. It helped take his mind off things, at least until the group settled down for the night. He would never forget the first time he'd seen Elissa and Alistair retiring to the same tent. He had felt as though he'd driven his own dagger into his chest. He asked himself over and over again – what could he expect? He was nobody – not even an existing member of society. There was no record of him anywhere, except – perhaps – on the list of wanted traitors in the Crow archives. What could he offer Elissa should he survive the Blight? What future could he give her but one filled with danger?

Slowly, he came to accept the love between the two Grey Wardens, although he never stopped calling her "his" even in front of her lover. He and Alistair had shared a fair amount of angry glares between them, mostly when Elissa wasn't looking. Eventually, however, they had grown closer – maybe had even become friends. Still, that did not mean that they agreed often. The silent argument that raged between them now was undeniable proof of that fact.

It was true that Zevran experienced a sort of sick pleasure in what he did, but he was usually more forgiving than he had been with the man the night prior. It was only because he could tell that this assassin was different that he went to such extremes to extract information from him. The other assassins had been meat sent for the slaughter – perhaps to test their strength. This man, however, bore the symbol of a higher ranking Crow on his shoulder. These men were chosen only for the most dire of tasks – ones that required more finesse and experience to carry out. He knew this because successfully killing the Grey Warden Elissa would have pushed him upwards to that rank.

"Look…" the elf finally said, unable to stand the silence any longer. "I know you don't agree with my methods…"

"I most certainly don't…" the King interjected.

"But it was necessary," the elf parried. He paused when something white floated before his eyes. He looked up and saw that the sky was covered in grey clouds, looming over the landscape. It was snowing, he realized. He'd only seen snow twice - once covering the Temple of Andraste on the mountaintop near Haven, and the time he had lost Elissa's trail. Seeing it again caused mixed feelings; his home in Antiva was warm and sunny. Hardly ever was it cold enough to cause this sort of phenomenon, and if it _was _cold, Zevran made sure he was out of the city so he would have to be a part of it.

Just ahead, a small, wooden sign read: _"Highever –45 miles"_. The assassin pointed silently and Alistair nodded. So, they were back to the silent game; with a small sound of annoyance, Zevran adjusted the pack on his shoulders and pressed forward. As they climbed, the path elevated at a slow but trying pace. Seeing as he usually traveled with only a pair of weapons and a light pack around his waist, the current hike was proving to be quite challenging for Zevran. In a couple of hours, both men were breathless. They had found a pair of large, sturdy, sticks among the fallen branches around them and were using them as a support, though they hardly helped to ease the discomfort in their chests.

Every step brought them closer and closer to Elissa – it was the litany that helped make the trek just a little easier to bear. The snow grew thicker with every half hour spent on the trail, until both travelers were knee-deep in the soggy whiteness. By that time, the path had almost completely disappeared. The wind grew in force and volume; they raised their hoods, hoping to shield their eyes from the pelting ice. Zevran turned to his silent companion.

"This is where I lost the trail before!" he shouted over the billowing wind. "There is nothing but blizzard ahead!" Though he said nothing, Alistair nodded and stepped around the elf, obviously prepared to take the lead. He stood still for a moment, then –

"This way! Highever is too far to reach in one go. We can stop by the Keep and try to make camp there! There's no way we can survive a night out here without walls to shield us!"

Despite their argument, Zevran trusted Alistair completely. In the storm, it was difficult to see more than six feet in front of him; he followed the edge of the King's black cloak blindly, as it was the only thing he could make out among the ocean of endless white. There were many things about his heritage and ancestry that he did not know – many mysteries that he had never had a chance to wonder about. But, if there was one thing he could be absolutely certain of, it was that elves did not belong in such a place. Yet, this was their road, and he knew he had to persevere because at the end of it lay something precious and irreplaceable.

Just when he thought that they would both freeze to death, Alistair stopped. When he turned back to face him, Zevran saw that his lips were pale, his face red from the burn of the wind. He was smiling, and he knew that that could only mean one thing – they had made it. Taking a few more labored steps forward, he pushed back his hood and looked uphill, where he could see the vague outline of a stone fortress. He couldn't help but join the King in his relief, both because this discovery brought them one step closer to their target and because they could finally find shelter from the terrible storm.

"Let's go!" he shouted impatiently and would have dashed forward had Alistair's hand on his shoulder not impeded his progress. In response to the elf's questioning glance, the King shook his head.

"We don't know if there's anyone in there! Be careful!" Zevran nodded and they resumed their slow pace up the hill. As soon as they passed over the drawbridge into the courtyard, the wind seemed to disappear into nothingness. The high walls blocked it out on all sides and the two men immediately felt the burning of their skin. Removing their hoods, they brandished their weapons, carefully picking their way through the rubble. Alistair's jaw was clenched tightly; Zevran's teeth were gritted together. Back to back, they made their way to the door of the main hall, letting out a pent up breath when they stepped inside and found the same vast emptiness that they had come across all those months ago.

Their packs crashed to the floor. They walked to one of the fireplaces, inspecting the charred rocks for any dry wood. It seemed that there was none to be had. Zevran reached into his bag and produced a small lantern. There was still some oil left inside and they lit it eagerly, placing it between them while they shivered. As warmth slowly seeped back into their fingers, Zevran inspected the high ceiling.

"This place is too quiet…too empty…"

Alistair looked guilty.

"Elissa and I were going to restore it, you know." His smile was wistful. "Our dream was to restore the Order and to bring some life back into this broken pile of rocks." The elf tilted his head sideways, surprised that the King would share something so personal all of a sudden. His eyes widened when a lighthearted laugh left his lips. "I have to say, that I was going to help mostly because I know how lonely she felt all those months during the Blight. After the Landsmeet, I was suddenly the King. Being a Grey Warden somehow slipped down on my priorities list." His look sobered. "I'm sure that wasn't the case with her, though. I know I'm incredibly lucky to have her by my side, but…" he trailed off. Zevran immediately understood.

"You worry that you are holding her back…" he added.

"Yes," was the King's weary reply. "She is restless. Being at court is hard for her." He rubbed his temple. "It's like caging a wild hawk. I know she wants to be free, to travel and to find others like her, but I…" he frowned. "I can't let her go." His eyes grew distant and the elf realized that the King did not want to speak of the subject any more. He lowered his gaze and stood, deciding to give the man privacy with his thoughts. He turned around, hoping to continue their search for supplies, when he was met by a large, looming shadow.

A sword was pressed against his throat.

He craned his neck to look up, only to see a pair of glowing yellow eyes.

"_Take one more step and you will die where you stand." _

He knew that the shape had said something threatening, but the language was completely alien to him. His first instinct was to reach for his daggers, but as soon as his hand made a small movement towards his back, his attacker's blade came close to drawing blood. Adrenaline slammed into him; he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Alistair, run!" he whispered hoarsely. Instead of obeying, he could hear the man behind him drawing his sword. The eyes that had hypnotized him with their intensity shifted to look behind his head.

"Let him go," the King threatened.

"And what will you do if I do not?" came a smooth reply. The voice was, oddly, familiar. It was cold and unyielding, just like the edge of the sword at his neck. He frowned as he tried to remember where he had heard the voice before. Then something happened that he could not have predicted. Alistair stepped forward and placed his hand on the dark shape's arm.

"Sten?" he asked incredulously. Zevran's mind reeled. Sten? The enormous Qunari? At that precise moment, light filtered through one of the gaps in the roof, illuminating the dark figure's face. His skin was dark, his eyes so bright they resembled a pair of candles glowing in the night. White hair fell in braided locks around his neck. There was no doubt about it – this was the Qunari that had followed them nearly a year ago.

"Those silver eyes…" the warrior mumbled. "Could it be…the second Grey Warden?" The blade was withdrawn and Zevran wrapped a hand around his throat, almost certain that he could still feel the pressure of the steel there. There was a prolonged silence.

"You've returned…from Par Vollen?" The warrior nodded. "When? _Why_?" The King quickly waved his hands. "Not that I'm not pleased to see you, but…I just wouldn't have thought that you would _want_ to return." There was no response to that. "How did you find this place?" Alistair continued, his voice echoing.

"I followed the path."

"In this hellish weather?"

"Yes."

The King suddenly gasped. "Have you seen anyone coming up here? Anyone?" At his question, the warrior looked somewhat confused.

"Have you not come to find Kadan?" he inquired.

"Kadan?" A beat. "You mean Elissa." The Qunari nodded; Alistair's eyes widened. "You've seen her! Where is she?"

"Follow," he commanded. Zevran felt his heart drop into his stomach; judging by the look on Alistair's face, the King was experiencing a similar predicament. He stumbled after the Qunari, taking two steps to every one of his long strides.

"Sten, where is she? Is she alright?"

That question seemed to give the enormous warrior some pause.

"No. Kadan is ill with frost fever." This piece of news seemed to crush the life out of Alistair's eyes. It was obvious that he wanted to shout for the Qunari to move faster; however, the warrior had always possessed a calm in his demeanor in even the most dire of situations. No matter what was happening, he always appeared to be in control of himself and was never in a hurry. "We found her buried in the snow. There are some minor injuries and several broken ribs, but this is not the real problem." Finally, he stopped in front of a large, wooden door. "The fever will finish her if medicine cannot be found."

The King grabbed the man's forearm in a death grip. "Were there others? Was there a man with her? A Mage?" At the mention of magic, a look of disgust crossed the Qunari's face.

"She was alone."

The King's head tipped forward, the long strands of his hair falling forward to conceal his eyes. His shoulders were shaking – he was obviously trying to get a grip on his emotions. At last, he looked up again, his eyes shining with respect and gratitude.

"Thank you, Sten…for this…"

The warrior shrugged, his expression turning dark. "When the Kadan is no longer in danger, you may thank me again, but until then we have all failed her."

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**To be continued...**

**A/N: Again, thanks to everyone who has been reading and adding my story to their alert/favorites. It means a lot to see that and know that you are enjoying my writing!  
**


	5. Chapter 4

**Dragon Age: Chronicles of Tainted Blood**

**Chapter 4

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The walls of the Royal Palace were nearly empty. It was the night watch – the time when most of the guards stepped inside to get away from the humidity of the evening. A sleek, graceful, shape crept along the ridges of the towering stone, blending into its texture as a chameleon would have against leaves. There was a sound, and the figure stopped, its long ears seeming to twitch as it strained to catch the source.

"Do you _ever_ stop eating?" came a burly man's voice.

"Sometimes, when I'm busy doing something useful," replied another man. The figure could tell right away that these were humans speaking. There was no grace in their words, no meaning behind the syllables.

"And, guarding the Royal Palace in the middle of the night doesn't fall into that category?" The lithe shape moved closer to the voices, where a pair of torches hung, suspended, on metal stands. It was careful to move with the shadows cast by the flames – careful lest it be caught.

"Ha!" was the other man's sarcastic snort. "And what do you suppose will happen? Ferelden has never been as peaceful as it has been this past year. Anyone would have to be out of their minds to want to bring harm to His Majesty or his Queen." He elbowed the other man in the side, a piece of meat falling from the enormous sandwhich in his hands. "Look at you, shaking in your boots like a little girl. Don't tell me you're afraid – the worst that can happen is we see a pathetic thief trying to sneak in to grab some of the silverware, in which case we have full rights to kill him on the spot."

"Ugh…I don't know how you can eat while talking about killing…" The man sounded a bit nauseated, while his partner took a large bite of his food.

"Don't worry," he said between mouthfuls. "The most I've ever seen on this post was a few cockroaches, and since they weren't planning on stealing any plates or goblets, I let them be."

"How kind of you," was the sarcastic reply. For a while, the figure watched them, tilting its head with some confusion. Did these creatures always act so foolishly when they were given an important duty?

_Shems_ – it thought with disgust. It was no wonder the Clans stayed as far away from them as possible. The two men continued talking, but the figure ignored the rest of their words. It focused on the rough stone beneath its hands and feet. Its gloves had claws and its boots had tough, textured soles to prevent slipping. Although the figure had spent years climbing just like this, scaling the vertical wall was still draining and exhausting. As it reached an open window, it grabbed the carved surface with one hand and pulled itself up, landing in a silent crouch on the windowsill. The curtains were made of the finest silk – a white, gossamer material that was partially transparent. Carefully, it parted the thin veil with the claws on its gloves, peaking inside the large room.

A gentle breeze slipped past the shape, jostling its hood until it fell back away from its face. Bright, piercing green eyes scanned its surroundings, ivory tribal tattoos almost seeming to glow against skin the color of bronze. Gold, nearly colorless hair fell in messy strands around features as fine and delicate as a child's; marks of age or passing time were absent from its visage. Long, pointed ears protruded from the mess of hair, sensitive to sounds and movements that the Shems could only dream of hearing. When it spotted a flickering light near a wall, where a pile of books and scrolls lay out in the open, the figure licked its lips in anticipation.

With the grace of a feline on the hunt, it jumped down into the chamber, seeming to blend with the shadows of the furniture and flickering lamplight as it made its way through the room. Should anyone have looked in its direction, it would have seen a shimmer, something that could have been dismissed as a trick of the failing light. It was precisely this skill, among many others, that had earned the figure its place as one of the best hunters in the Clan. In light of its recent circumstances, perhaps it was more of a curse than a blessing, for the quest that was to be completed here was not an undertaking the shape would have pledged to had it not been desperate.

It reached the scrolls and parchments in a few, short, moments. Deftly, it retracted its claws with a flick of its wrists and set about the task of rifling through the mounds of documents, adrenaline rushing through its veins. Voices could be heard through the wall; there were people in the adjoining room – laughing and discussing the latest gossip, probably servants shirking their responsibilities for several moments of free time. It was fortunate – the figure thought – that those who worked in the Royal Palace allowed themselves the luxury of being so carefree. It made its job a little easier and far less hazardous.

"Oh, Shalla, don't be ridiculous! You know how tired His Majesty has been lately! I'm positive that this will cheer him up."

The voice came from just around the corner and the figure cursed under its breath. It had been so preoccupied with scanning the scrolls that it hadn't heard anyone come into the chamber. With hardly a sound, it whirled around and pressed itself against the wall in a dark corner, pulling its black cloak around itself. It was dark as the void, specially infused with traces of illusion magic for situations just like this one.

The servant was Elvhenan, although it was not of the forest. A city elf – serving the treacherous Shems and dishonoring itself in bowing its head before them. A wave of simultaneous disgust and pity passed through the figure's chest. This creature did not know of the trees and spirits as it should; it was ignorant to the way of the Vir Tanadahl. It would probably spend the rest of its pathetic, short, life here, never seeing the forest or tasting of its goodness and beauty. It was inevitable – upon seeing how low this caste of Elvhenan had fallen – to feel proud of the Dalish heritage that the figure had been born into. It was at times like these that the true difference between them could be clearly seen and noted.

Inside its cocoon, it heard its heart beating so loudly that the figure feared the servant might hear its echo. By whatever divine blessing, she did not. She hummed a light tune as she worked, changing the linens on the bed and tossing out the old, withered, flowers on the table in favor of placing new, vibrant ones there instead. Despite her obvious dishonor and desperate place in life, she seemed content; there was even a small smile on her face. How odd. Had their places been switched, the figure would have despaired losing its freedom – its culture, its code of life, and its beliefs. These city elves – they should have been a broken people; they should not smile so carelessly.

Just when the figure thought she was leaving, she abruptly switched directions and came towards the corner where it was hiding. Silently, it unsheathed a small dagger, tipped with a poison that would kill its victim in seconds. Its muscles tensed and it prepared to strike, ready to drive the weapon into the woman's heart and silence her before she even had a chance to scream. It would be a shame; the figure had not come here to kill servants. Its mission was much more dire – much more significant and important. Stealth was the key; by murdering a random servant, that criteria would not be met. It was supposed to go in and come back out without anyone having been the wiser.

Someone called the woman from behind the wall.

"Coming!" she shouted back, making the figure flinch. In the near silence, her voice sounded unnaturally loud and piercing. Perhaps it was because she stood just inches from discovering its hiding place; perhaps it was because, should she look down, she would see more than just a shimmer of light. Still humming, she reached up and shut the window, rearranging the curtains until they lay flat. Afraid to breathe, the figure willed itself to be as still as stone, its hand clenching the hilt of its weapon so tightly that it could feel the leather wrapping chiseling their shape into its skin.

More shouting from the corridor.

"Coming! Spirits, what's the rush, anyway?" she asked in a frustrated tone. Turning to leave, she picked up a small tray off the table nearest to the window and took several steps towards the door. Slowly, the figure replaced its dagger in its case, carefully letting out a breath of relief. It shifted forward until it was no longer wedged between rock and wood and was about to start creeping towards the desk again when a crashing sound sent its nerves into an adrenaline-filled frenzy.

"Oh no!" came the woman's voice. Before the figure could properly react, she dashed around the corner, chasing after a pair of rolling apples. One of them landed against the figure's boot with a light _thunk_. The girl stopped in mid-run, her eyes catching sight of the shape in the inky darkness. Slowly, her gaze drifted upwards until their eyes met – the servant's shocked blue clashing with the trespasser's intense green. There was a pivotal moment in which the shape knew that she was going to scream; it could almost feel the intake of breath, the crucial split second in which her throat contracted to form the high-pitched sound that would doom its mission and its secrecy.

With reflexes born from endless training with the bow and blade, the figure sprang forward and grabbed the woman, twisting her around until its hand covered her mouth. For a second, it seemed that she was too dazed to realize what had happened. Just when it thought that murder could be avoided with a warning not to make a sound, the woman shrieked behind the hand that bound her. Behind its mask, the figure's lips thinned into a grim line. With a single, cruel, twist, the woman's neck was broken – a sickening crack the only evidence to the gruesome act.

It sat still for what seemed like centuries, holding the dead body until it felt the warmth start to dissipate from it. Though it had been necessary to prevent the failure of its mission, the shape was not so jaded and heartless that it could kill without remorse. If only there was a way to atone for the killing of an innocent. Did its cause justify such dark means? Before it could allow itself to regret any more, a burning fire of determination filled its heart. With a stab of rage, it recalled why it had been sent here in the first place. With an indifference that was born from anger and desperation, the figure tossed aside the woman's body and made its way to the desk of documents again. Gritting its teeth, it rolled up any loose parchments and stuffed it into its pack, reminding itself that what it was doing was for the good of its people – or what remained of them.

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~XX~ ~XX~ ~XX~ ~XX~ ~XX~ ~XX~ ~XX~

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Wynne walked slowly through the hallways of the Royal Palace, her slippered feet barely making a sound against the long, red, carpet. She wore a set of blue, silk, robes trimmed with threads of gold. Her shoulders were adorned with an exquisite mantle, made of feathers taken from the most beautiful of pheasants, caught by the royal huntsmen. The set was a gift from Elissa, given to her after her and Alistair's wedding.

_Without you, we would have been lost – not only on the battlefield, but within the darkness of our doubts…_

The words had touched her deeply, as had the obviously lavish and expensive gift. The material was infused with enchantments, meant to enhance the natural strength of her gift. Such things came at a great price.

"My Lady, are you certain that this is the best course of action?" The words of her apprentice – a boy around the age of fifteen – made her frown. He had voiced a concern that she had been feeling from the moment she had made her decision to use the Mirror.

"It is the _only_ course of action," she replied, wondering if she was trying to reassure the boy or herself. In reflex, she gripped her staff more tightly, her face anxious. When she had first learned about the Mirror, she had been shocked that such a dangerous Tevinter artifact had been allowed into the Royal Palace, especially with a Blight on their doorstep. Irving had revealed that there was an identical version of the same Mirror in the Circle Tower, although it was hidden where none but the First Enchanter could reach it. It was, for the most part, to be used only in the most dire of situations for the Mages to contact each other when a messenger could not be sent.

As far as Wynne had found out through thorough research, the Mirror hadn't been used since the days of King Maerick's rule – even then, careful records were kept of each use, in case anything should go wrong. By opting to use the artifact, Wynne knew that she was risking her life; however, she could not afford to wait three days for a messenger to ride to the Circle and wait another three for assistance to come. They were pressed for time; if peace and order was to be kept while Alistair searched for his Warden, the people had to believe that he had never left in the first place.

After traveling down to the basement of the estate, the Mage and her apprentice finally stopped in front of a set of double doors. Wynne turned to her follower, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. He was frowning, his eyes fearful.

"From this point on, I go on alone." She interrupted what would have been a protest. "Tam, this is far too dangerous for you. You are still not strong enough to defend your mind should anything go wrong." The boy grabbed her hand, his face pleading.

"Please, let me come with you, Lady Wynne."

"No. I'm sorry, Tam, but for now this is the way it must be." When he looked disappointed and thoroughly put out, she sighed. "I will leave you with a task that is no less important. You are to stay right outside the door and lock it after I go in. If you hear anything odd or out of place, you are to call for help and keep guard over this door, so that nothing may escape."

"Yes, Lady Wynne. I understand."

She nodded brusquely. "Good. Then may the Maker watch over us." She placed a hand against the door, feeling the magic ward thrumming there. With a whispered incantation, the barrier dissipated and she stepped into the room. Almost immediately, she felt a cold chill, as if the warmth of the outside air never touched this place. A large, towering structure stood in the center, supported by a marble pedestal. Twin, stone, warriors guarded the Mirror between them. It's surface should have been reflective, but it resembled a pool of quicksilver more than anything. When she stepped up on the pedestal, she did not see herself in the vast material – her research indicated that it was made almost entirely of Lyrium, painstakingly purified and molded into a solid shape.

She knew better than to touch it with her bare hands. Instead, she tapped the smooth surface with her staff, the jewel glowing within the twisted wood. The rush of pure energy was almost overwhelming; her eyes narrowed and she held her ground against it. Within her mind, the Spirit whispered a warning; she did her best to soothe its fear. _This is necessary_, she reminded herself. _This is must be done_. A fog seemed to cloud the Mirror before the veil of white separated to show a hazy image. She stepped closer, trying to make out the details. As if from a great distance, a voice came to her through the Mirror –

"Using this artifact is most unwise…"

It was Irving's voice – the First Enchanter.

"Forgive me, Irving. Please believe that, had things been less dire, I would not have resorted to this." At last, she saw his face in the Mirror, clear as daylight. He looked old, wearied, exhausted. Although the Circle had been saved after the great tragedy that had befallen it, Irving had never fully recovered. He refused to speak of his ordeal, and Wynne could only imagine how terrible it must have been to witness so many brothers and sisters die for nothing.

"What is so dire that you had to tamper with the Tevinter Mirror?"

Wynne looked down. "The Royal Palace has urgent need of _her_, Irving."

There was a long pause. "You know she does not leave the Circle."

"I know, but I was thinking that, in light of the recent events, she would reconsider." The Enchanter scratched his beard thoughtfully, looking most displeased.

"You're asking me to put the Circle in a vulnerable position, Wynne. Even for you, that is asking a lot." She nodded in agreement, her expression forlorn.

"I understand that, Irving, but I would not ask if we were not desperate. _She_ is the _only_ one who can help us." At that, he gave a sound of disapproval. "Please, let me at least speak to her."

"Will this help the Warden?" he asked suddenly. "Will this help bring her back?"

"Indirectly, but yes," was her honest reply. He looked like he was going to refuse. There was much turmoil on his face. She could understand why. The Mage she was requesting was next in line to be the First Enchanter. She was the most powerful and influential Mage of the current Senior Enchanters. Typically, such individuals were expressly forbidden from leaving the Circle Tower while the seat of the First Enchanter was about to open. Their lives were more valuable than any crisis –or so it was believed. By asking Irving to allow one of these Mages out of the Tower, to travel across the country in a time of so much unrest, she was asking him to risk losing his successor.

"Alright. Wait there. You may have your say, but don't expect anything."

A thrill ran up her spine. Though she knew that her request might fall on deaf ears, she wanted to try everything in her power to make this work. She'd decided that she would no longer live with regret, and doing so meant living every moment to the best of her ability. It took several minutes, but the First Enchanter finally reappeared.

"Senior Enchanter and Mage Advisor Wynne, allow me to introduce my successor, Solona Amell, Senior Enchanter and leader in the study of illusion magic."

The image wavered for a moment before a beautiful woman stepped into view. Her hair was black as ebony, her skin pale as moonlight. Her most startling feature was her eyes, which were the color of yellow leaves in the thick of autumn. On her forehead, glowed a bright symbol that Wynne could not decipher – it was a mark of ancient magic. Sometimes Mages would have such tattoos inscribed on their skin, to heighten their gift. It was a dangerous process; many inscriptions could permanently damage the fragile balance of magic and life force in a Mage's body.

"A pleasure to meet you Solona." The woman on the other side of the Mirror closed her eyes and bowed wordlessly. Feeling more than a little nervous, Wynne decided to press on with the issue at hand. As the woman stood from her bow, Wynne continued. "There is a dire crisis here at the Royal Palace which requires urgent attention. I realize that asking you to leave the Circle may seem selfish, but we truly need your help." That said, she waited with bated breath for a reply.

"Such news you bring me," Solona said in a calm and emotionless tone. "I hope that everything is alright."

"It won't be, not if we don't act quickly," Wynne warned, slightly frustrated that the woman seemed to be so apathetic in the face of her obvious concern. Instead of reacting to her threat, Solona simply nodded. "Please, you must leave the Circle and travel to the Royal Palace. We need assistance immediately."

"The Royal Palace? Does something ail the King?" she inquired.

"Have you not heard? The Queen has been taken."

"I have not heard," she responded in a monotone.

"You haven't? How can this be? Irving?" The images in the Mirror shifted until she could see the First Enchanter's face again.

"As you can see, Wynne, this conversation will lead nowhere. Solona has been…indisposed for some time and is still suffering from bouts of weakness. Traveling at this point would not be advisable."

"Sick? Solona, is this true?" Again, the images wavered. The woman's face reappeared.

"I have been indisposed for some time. Forgive my absence." Whatever hope Wynne might have harbored was dashed with that sentence. It was obvious that either Irving was behind her refusal, or the woman herself did not wish to risk her safety, even to help her own King. Still, there was something strange about this situation. It seemed that Solona's way of speaking was…off. Was Irving saying something to her behind her back? Was he guiding her words and actions? If that was the case, then there might still be some hope. She straightened her back.

"I understand. Is there any chance that someone of your school could be sent in your stead? An apprentice, perhaps, that is ready for testing?"

"I am glad we have come to an understanding," Solona replied. A pause. "I will do my best." Again, Wynne got the distinct feeling that something wasn't right. But, she knew that if an apprentice _was_ sent, Solona would be required to stay in constant communication with the Mage that was borrowing them. Perhaps she would have another chance to change the woman's mind; perhaps things could work out after all. In a whisper of sound, Solona's image faded away, replaced once again by Irving's.

"Thank you, First Enchanter."

"There is nothing to thank me for. It seems that you did not get what you needed." Was she imagining the slightly satisfied tone he was using? Wynne's patience was on the verge of breaking.

"Send me an apprentice, at least. The Circle may believe that it is beyond the touch of what goes on in Ferelden, but as was proven before, it is not above the laws or tragedies of it. Should the King or his Queen come to harm due to the Circle's negligence, there will be much to account for." With that said, she pulled back her staff from the Mirror. The surface dimmed, leaving Wynne in nearly complete darkness. She closed her eyes, bent her head forward, and prayed.

"May the Maker help us all."

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**To be continued...**


	6. Chapter 5

**Dragon Age: Chronicles of Tainted Blood**

**Chapter 5

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**

Whispers…

It was said that the Grey Wardens always heard them, some more than others.

In their dreams, they were always at the cusp between being defeated by the Taint, or coming out victorious from the battle with it. In those nightmares, they flirted with death itself, finding no peace even within the depths of their minds. After the Arch Demon's death, the whispers had gone quiet. Sleep was peaceful, dreamless. Elissa had found relief in sleeping through the night, even though she saw nothing but blackness behind closed eyes. She had believed that the restless nights had finally come to an end, unsuspecting that she would one day have to survive through them once again.

Now was that time.

Now the whispers had returned, even more powerful than before.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself before the great doors within the Deep Roads – massive and terrifying. Why was it that she kept returning here? Why was it that she could not forget this wretched place? Somehow, it had crept under her skin; it had become a part of her, as much in sync with her own body as her eyes and fingers. There was something about this place that haunted her, something that she could not let go. Without conscious thought, she drew her sword, recognizing it to be Duncan's. Her feet lead her to the towering structure; the heavy armor against her skin made her feel as though she was on fire. Slowly, as a drop of dew might slide down a tilted leaf, a bead of sweat trickled down her brow, tickling the skin beneath her helmet.

Step.

Step.

Step.

As she came closer and closer to the doors, the whispers drowned out even the sound of her breathing. The hand that held Duncan's sword was shaking uncontrollably. As she walked, she stepped on bodies – lifeless forms of countless Dwarves, Humans, and Elves. There were Darkspawn, too – ones who had slipped past the defenses and had fallen against the waves of warriors.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Beyond the doors, drums began to beat in a steady rhythm that mirrored the beating of her own heart. Within the chambers of her most vital organ, the drummer shook with terror. If only they would shriek; if only they would roar, or scream, or shout like the monsters that they were – perhaps she would not be so frightened. This whispering was driving her out of her mind; the voices were like burning whips, lashing out in punishing blows against her courage and resolve. They made gashes in her determination, tore through her will, and ripped her confidence into a thousand pieces.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Step forward into inevitability. She was the sole survivor – the last Grey Warden. Duty called and she was the only one left to answer it. The drumming became louder. As she moved forward – towards her doom – her mind started to collapse into itself. She could recall being afraid before a battle, but this experience was so different that she felt she could not recall anything past death and failure. Against that drumming, against that whispering – there could be no victory.

Step.

Step.

Step.

She stood less than a hair's breadth from the crack between the doors. A draft passed through the microscopic opening, bringing with it the stench of death and rotting flesh. It was the Taint – the same corruption that ran rampant through her veins. As the air blew against her face, she could almost feel the horde of Darkspawn breathing on the other side – inhaling and exhaling disaster as a single unit. She knew without doubt that as soon as the doors opened, it would rush over her like a tidal wave – obliterating everything in its path. Her life was not the most precious thing she owned. After death, she still had so much more to lose. Her soul, her memories, her experiences, her dreams, her goals – the tsunami of Darkpawn would wash all that away. There would be no shore to swim to for salvation; there would be no flotsam she could hold onto in an attempt to stay afloat.

She placed her hand against the frigid metal of the doors, leaning forward until she pressed her forehead against the carvings chiseled there. The breathing persisted.

In and out…

In and out…

With every inhalation, the monsters stole her breath.

With every exhalation, they returned it – poisoned with mindless bloodlust and a frenzy to feed upon her flesh. Her sword hand was still trembling; her shoulders were still shaking; her knees were on the verge of giving out. And still, the drums kept beating – the sounds reverberating on the timeless stone until they became a living entity.

_Join us…_came a sudden plea. _Join us daughter and sister… _

She squeezed her eyes shut, falling into a half-crouch and wrapping her arms around her knees. Her teeth knocked together, blind panic taking hold of her with rough talons. Her skin itched, as if thousands of ants had crawled under it; she wanted to tear it off, to be rid of it along with her identity – the black, vile thing that made her who she was.

_Come to us…join us…be one with us…_

Who was it? Who was beckoning? Was it the Darkspawn? Was it the Arch Demon beyond the door? Or did the voices belong to the countless bodies strewn across the battlefield? She twisted, turned, until she could face the scene behind her. The eyes of the dead bore into her – lifeless, empty, frozen for eternity in a plea for second chances. A cold breath on her spine – the drums were beating; the breathing caressed her back.

In and out…

In and out…

The ground tilted upwards; she felt herself falling to the soil, crawling among the dead. Those eyes…those horrible eyes…through them, she could see her own downfall. Their mouths were open, as if they'd died with the desire to say something important.

_Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. _

It was her voice, she realized – it was _her _speaking, making an irreversible vow. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, wanting desperately to recede into unconsciousness, where the voice could not remind her of her responsibilities – where her oath meant nothing. Her skin was itching; she scratched at it until it bled.

_Should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. _

Sacrifice…sacrifice…images of the Darkspawn tearing her apart made her flinch. Her body felt as though it were ablaze, already being burned alive by the flames of the Emissaries and their corrupted magic. They would run her through with a thousand rusted blades; they would cut off her arms and slice off her legs until her corpse would lie broken on the soil. But that wouldn't be the end – far from it. As they would continue to take pleasure in carving into her with knives and daggers, she would live to see their black, bottomless eyes above her face. Their bloodthirsty grins would follow her into oblivion, where her soul would know no peace even after passing on.

_One day, sister, you will join us… _

She wanted nothing more than to run – to run until all the strength was gone from her body. Yet she couldn't move; she was trapped in a cage of her own cowardice, rock back and forth pathetically, huddled and curled up in a ball before the doors that should have lead to her timeless honor.

_Let that day be now…come with us…_

Not yet – she wasn't ready yet. It was much too soon; she wasn't strong enough, wasn't brave enough. What use would her arm be, when it shook lives leaves in the wind? What use would her legs be, when they were as weak as water-logged paper?

_Open the doors…_

No! Denial, thick as bile, rose up in her throat. There was too much yet to do – too many things to finish, too many things abandoned before they'd even began. Then there was love – she could no more abandon that than she could toss away her lungs and expect to live.

_Open the doors…_

She couldn't. It was too soon. So many things she cared about were still in peril. There were still feelings, desires, people, and places that she had to protect. With whatever strength she still had left in her failing body, she would fight for those things until such time when the sun no longer awakened and the moon no longer illuminated the night sky. Should she fall in the attempt, she would give in – she would walk up to these doors, ready to face whatever ocean of despair that might be waiting. At least, at that time, she would know that she had lived her life with all her being…

_You are a Grey Warden… do not forget the duty that cannot be forsworn…

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She awakened in pieces. First, came breathing, then hearing, then sight. For a time, she did not even know she was awake. Her mind was lost somewhere between hallucinations and reality. Some part of her still stood within the Deep Roads – staring at that crack between the doors. For a moment, she even thought that she could hear the drums, but realized that it was the sound of the blood pounding in her ears. Her eyes attempted to focus – she saw worn stone above her.

It was hot – so very hot.

So, she had been set afire after all.

Restlessly, she tried to move her fingers, wanting to see her hands to make sure her skin was still whole. Through a haze of pain, she lifted her arm, her palm coming into her line of vision. She heard a sound somewhere nearby; did someone call her name?

A shuffling.

Then a face – right next to her; it was so close, she could feel its owner's breath fanning her cheeks. It felt good; it was cold though it was made of steam. Moving her arm, she used her palm to cup the face, to feel the coldness of the cheek.

"Elissa, can you hear me?"

The features on the face shifted – morphed into many people all at once until it settled on a set of shapes. Her breath hitched in her throat; suddenly, her left hand could almost feel the weight of the sword from her dream. She stared up into the face, feeling a heaviness settle like a rock in her heart. She hadn't seen this face in ages, but now that she did, she felt compelled to beg forgiveness.

"Duncan…I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…"

Something cold was pressed against her forehead.

"Elissa, it's me. Look at me." She did, straining as she struggled to obey. At last, the face shifted again until another took its place, this one so welcome and dear that she thought she would shed tears for the first time in her life. Alistair…the name came to her suddenly, as though through a fog. She waded through a pool of tar, her lips so sluggish that she could not move them. The face turned away.

"Zevran! She's awake!"

Sounds of movement.

The clattering of metal against stone.

Then another face, this one as beautiful and flawless as a polished statue of Andraste. She recognized the too-perfect features, the delicate cheekbones that made up an Elven face.

"Warden, are you alright? Can you hear us?" She flinched. Sounds brought pain, made her head feel as though it would explode.

"I…don't know…where am I?" she heard herself asking, though the words made no sense.

"You're safe," Alistair said gently. "Can you remember what happened to you?" She shook her head in denial. A restlessness took hold; she felt quite uncomfortable being in such a helpless position. With a groan of effort, she pulled herself up until she was sitting, her head pounding. "Don't get up yet."

"Was I injured? Where are the Darkspawn?" She pressed a hand to her forehead in a futile attempt to keep the room from spinning.

"You're a little confused," came Zevran's voice. "What's the last thing you remember?" It took a while for her to collect herself. Memories floated up one by one from the inky depths of her confusion.

"It was cold. So much ice." Her fingers dug into her hair with effort. "Did I fall asleep? I'm sorry…we need to keep moving..." Something finally clicked and her rambling was interrupted. "Sten…" she whispered. "Sten found me…" A knocking. She turned when she heard a door creaking open and saw a huge shape ducking under the frame to enter the room. For a moment, the Qunari stared at her dispassionately before making his way to her side.

"Kadan, you are awake…" he said simply. Why was it so hard to breathe? Why did her chest feel as though it was crushed? "Your ribs are broken." For a moment, she didn't realize that he was answering her. Had she spoken aloud? He took a few steps forward and pressed something into her hands.

"Drink."

"I made the tea myself," Zevran said proudly, a gentle smile gracing his features. "It will restore your strength."

It was a water skin, made of the leather of an animal she did not recognize. With quivering hands, she raised it to her lips and drank greedily, her throat suddenly feeling parched. Although the liquid was bitter, she did not stop; her thirst was too great. When she finished, Alistair took the flask from her. With fingers that were softer than the touch of a sea breeze, he moved stray strands of hair from her face. She leaned sleepily into his touch, wanting to rest but fearing what she might return to in her dreams. Nevertheless, her eyes drifted closed. She heard herself speaking, but did not recognize what she was saying. It was as though her words came from somewhere deep inside.

"There were two of them," she whispered. "Maleficar…there was nothing I could do…"

"I knew it," came a grave voice. Her mind was drifting; she felt herself floating forward until her face was pressed against something solid. Cracking open her eyes, she saw that Alistair had pulled her up against him. "Who were they? Did you see their faces?" She would have fallen asleep without answering, but Alistair would not have it. He shook her gently. "Elissa – did you see their faces?"

"A man…in a red cloak…" was her slurred response.

"Leave her," came an angered command. Sten's voice. "Let her rest. The fever may have broken, but…" The sound faded away. Again, the ground dropped out from underneath her feet and she floated down into unconsciousness.

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It was said that Soldier's Peak was the birthplace of all blizzards in the Coastlands. There were hardly any trees or animals that could survive here, and travelers hardly ever made their way up unless they took a detour on their way to Highever. Even then, most never made it to the Peak itself. The fortress that was rumored to have been built right atop this treacherous point had not been seen since the rule of King Maerick. Some said that the fortress housed a treasure of such magnificence that the jeweled crown of the King himself paled in comparison. Others believed that it was full of wicked spirits – a place where demons and their ilk roamed freely.

For the man in the blood red cloak, the Warden's Keep was none of these. He watched the fortress from his place in a dank cave carved into the mountainside, a shelter he had made _himself_ at the cost of nearly all his strength and magic. He loathed to go back out in the raging storm, but feared that it was his only option. The Warden had to be retrieved. His mission was already in jeopardy.

Several days ago, he and his partner had dragged the woman up the mountain, hoping to reach Warden's Keep in time to report to their employer. The mountain, however, worked against them. The blizzard had nearly killed them all. It had swallowed up his partner in a few short hours, and before the man knew what had happened, the woman had disappeared into the overwhelming whiteness. He knew that she could not get far. He had cursed her with the Waking Nightmare; even if she did regain consciousness somehow, she would be immobilized, trapped within his illusion until he chose to release her.

He'd stumbled through the snow for hours, praying to find her body, when he saw a group of giants carrying something towards the fortress. He'd recognized them immediately - Qunari, the sort of team that a single Mage was no match for, no matter how powerful. From that point on, he had decided to take things one step at a time. The first priority was finding shelter, then finding some way to force the woman from the Qunari's company. At least, that was the plan before two other travelers showed up – one whom he recognized to be the assassin he had spoken to before.

So, the elf had had the sense not to lie about their direction of travel. It was foolish yet commendable; the decision proved his loyalty to the Warden beyond the shadow of a doubt. How fortunate she was, to have made such allies. With all of them together, there was no hope of victory for him. Frustrated, he turned back towards his dying fire and knelt down, reaching into his pocket and sprinkling glimmering powder into the flames. A pair of eyes appeared within.

"Where have you been? We have been waiting here for days…"

The cloaked man bowed his head.

"There were unforeseen difficulties. I lost her in the snows of the Peak, and by the time I found her, there was no opportunity to take her back."

The voice hissed angrily. "Then _find one_! Do what you have been commanded to…unless you wish to face the consequences." There was a muffled groan somewhere behind the voice.

"If you harm _one hair_ on his head," the cloaked man said hotly, "I will find you, and I will tear you apart…" The threat hung in the air between them for a moment before the voice in the fire chuckled.

"It is better that you do as you were told. If you do, we will release him back into your custody and all will be well again…"

"Or you could release him now and find another to do your bidding. I don't understand why it must be _me_!"

The face smiled in the flames. "You do not have to understand. All we require of you is your obedience and trust that this is what is best for Ferelden." Another muffled groan. "He is in so much pain…how terrible, that an innocent must be involved. But, such is the way of the world." The man's face morphed into an expression of hatred and disgust. "Sacrifices must be made, if we are to restore balance to this country."

The man growled under the cloak.

"You are a fool, if you think you can get away with this insanity."

"Y_ou _are the fool here, _human_. You and the rest of those who follow the unworthy bastard who now sits upon the throne," he barked. "Enough of this! Do as you have been commanded, or you will find this man's blood caking the walls of your precious Circle Tower!"

"I cannot believe that you would stoop this low. To think that you would risk a union with _demons_ and _Darkspawn_…" When the man in the crimson cloak looked up, his shining, gold eyes were glinting with rage. His teeth were bared, an expression of fury deforming features that would have been considered handsome. With a hiss, he continued –

"I cannot believe that so many once believed in you…

…Grey Warden…"

As the blizzard raged, the face in the fire smiled wickedly.

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**To be continued...**

**Thanks for reading and for adding me to your alerts list everyone! **

**I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story so far!**


	7. Chapter 6

**Dragon Age: Chronicles of Tainted Blood**

**Chapter 6

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As the black, hooded shape approached the meeting place, a pair of soldiers dressed in dark, crimson leather appeared on both of its sides. Even though the figure knew the drill, it still gave a loud, disapproving growl as the two men placed a blindfold over its eyes and grabbed both of its arms to lead it forward. They joked between themselves in a language it had never heard before, their hands rough as they used more force than necessary to guide their charge through hallways and around corners. When at last they stopped, the figure felt a little dizzy and disoriented; it still did not understand the purpose of such secrecy. The Dalish relied on much more than eyesight to know a path. This was the figure's fifth if not sixth visit to this place, and its boots knew the way better than its eyes ever could.

When the blindfold was removed, the figure shook its head, attempting to straighten out its mussed, bright hair. A pair of intense, green eyes glared at the large, golden chair before them, a snarl building on the owner's lips. Upon the throne-like chair sat a man with glittering blue eyes the color of azure ice. There was a smile hidden behind his hand. Hair the color of blood fell in waves down to his shoulders; a wicked scar slashed from his forehead, across his eye, and down to his jaw, deforming a face that may have once been handsome. He raised his hands in the air in a mockery of a greeting.

"And there she is! My little Lyna…" He stood and walked to her. "Tell me you've been successful!" A pause. There was a murderous glint in his eyes. "You wouldn't dare return unless you were…"

"I was," was the elf's simple reply. She reached into her pack and pulled out a wad of rolled up parchment. "Here – just like you ordered – the treaties and correspondences with Orlais."

"Excellent!" he said gleefully, practically ripping the paper out of her hands. He started walking away when she grabbed his elbow and whipped him around. Instantly, three guards surrounded her, their knives set against her throat. She didn't flinch.

"You gave me your word…" she growled. For a moment, he stood still – watching her, sizing her up. Then, out of seemingly nowhere, he chuckled. The expression of apparent amusement was like poison; that the merry sound of laughter could be so twisted into something so deformed and ugly made her release him and grimace.

"I did, didn't I?" He waved off the men, signaling for them to back away. With synchronized bows, they obeyed. "But…you're forgetting a very important part of our little arrangement, _my dear_." With a cruel strength, he grasped her chin and tilted up her head until she felt a wave of pain radiate in her neck. "I said that you could have your freedom, _and his_, only _after_ you helped me."

"And I _did_!" she shouted defiantly. In response, he shook his head.

"No…you've merely _assisted _me. We are nowhere near the finish line."

"How dare you break your promise? You _swore – _" Her shouting was abruptly cut off. He released her chin and promptly delivered a stunning blow to the side of her face. Pain erupted in her head; she did not have a chance to regain her balance. Her ear was still ringing when she realized that she had hit the ground at some point, but she was so dazed that she couldn't even move to press a hand to the offended appendage.

"Do not forget who you are speaking to, _elf scum_!" He knelt down until she could feel his breath on her neck. "Do not forget that I _own_ both of you. Take one step – _one step – _out of line, and I will _make sure_ that he rots in the dirt beside the rest of your Clan."

A sneer.

"Maybe I'll let you plant a tree on top of his grave before I arrange for you to join him." With a swish of silken robes and the _tap tap tap_ of his mage's staff on the cold marble, she heard him retreating. Her world went dark. With a small gasp, she awakened to find herself sprawled on the forest floor, completely confused and slightly frightened of her unfamiliar surroundings. She didn't know how long she lay there, alone and abandoned, but eventually she regained the use of her limbs. Painfully, she sat up, trying to throw off the dizziness that sent her body reeling every which way.

"_Shems_…" she spat. Just the word itself tasted dirty enough to make her want to rinse out her mouth. Judging from the tingle in her spine and the stillness around her, she had to guess that she'd been dumped somewhere in the Wilds. The forest was different here – it almost seemed to have a life of its own. The breeze did not rustle the leaves; the rain did not disturb the trees. Even the birds were almost always silent, as if paying their respects to something that drove them more intensely than their own instinct. It was said that Flemeth – the Witch of the Wilds – had once lived here, and that, even after her death, the forest remained enchanted.

Determination steeled her will, and she forced herself to her feet. Leaning against a tree for support, she allowed herself to close her eyes and envision her brother's face as she had last seen him. Their Clan had been destroyed just a little over a year ago by the werewolves and their leader Witherfang. She and her brother Theron had been the sole survivors of the massacre. They had been playing in a nearby cave, exploring some old ruins they had found, while their parents, friends, and elders had been brutally torn apart. And if that wasn't bad enough, Theron had discovered something in the ruins that had nearly killed them both. A mirror – with a surface that did not reflect – stood at the bottom of the winding passageways. Though she'd warned him not to, her brother – ever reckless – had touched the thing. There had been an explosion that had thrown them both back. She had opened her eyes to see a man with blue eyes and red hair standing above her, smiling and making promises.

Her brother had been gravely injured; he was sick with Taint, but she didn't have to worry because the man knew how to cure such things. All she had to do was pledge her assistance should he ever ask for it. The offer had been too good; at the time, she didn't care for anything except her brother and seeing him well again, especially after the man revealed what had happened to her Clan. Werewolves – he had said. But the beasts had not been alone. Among them were two people who had led the attack against the peaceful Clan – two Grey Wardens.

Besieged with grief and stricken with a sense of helplessness so deep it could have been a pit to hell itself, she pledge her service to the red-haired man in return for his help in healing her brother. He had even promised her vengeance against the two who had spilled Dalish blood. By the time she was emotionally stable and able to step into the real world again, her savior had given her their names and had revealed that the two were known as heroes in Ferelden. One had taken the throne while the other was soon to marry him. That very day, she had sworn that neither of them would ever find happiness, not when they had stepped on others to attain it. She had donned the cloak of the assassin, shedding all emotion except for righteous anger and determination.

The two would pay for what they'd done…

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"Elissa, are you alright in there?" Alistair stood awkwardly in front of the door to what appeared to be the only, intact, room in all of Warden's Keep, shuffling his feet impatiently. He knocked several times, hearing a scuffling on the other side of the wood.

"I'm fine!" came a muffled voice.

It had been several hours since Elissa had awakened.

When he'd arrived to see her pale and unconscious, nearly dead of fever and hypothermia, he had almost lost his wits. If it wasn't for Zevran's quick thinking and Sten's solid calm, he was sure that the outcome would not have been so positive. They'd spent the better part of the day keeping her huddled near the fire, scouring the Keep for wood and flammables to keep the flames strong. They'd ended up burning most of the books in the library; at the time, Zev had attempted to lighten the mood by joking that Wynne would have been outraged at the sight. Sten had given the elf an apathetic glance, but Alistair was too busy rubbing the Warden's frozen hands between his own to really care.

What disturbed him was that, even though she burned with fever, she did not make a sound. Her body was limp as a rag doll; she did not stir. In fact, if he hadn't seen something odd flicker in the light of the fire, he would probably still not know what was wrong. As it happened, he was a Templar – at least, he had been at some point. Although he could not make the claim of being fully trained, he could definitely see and sense magic with as much ease as any guard in the Circle Tower. The strange, purple, glare that periodically flashed before his eyes was definitely caused by some sort of magic.

He placed his hand on her forehead and reached out with his senses, cursing as he recognized that she was under the effect of a spell he had seen too often.

The Waking Nightmare…

Morrigan had been particularly fond of it.

There were varying degrees of it. From what Alistair could recall, the one that Morrigan had used was a weaker version of the actual spell – meant for mass effect. It was usually done on the fly, when there was hardly time for incantations or concentration. The targets usually remained stunned for a few seconds before shaking off their paralysis and continuing their onslaught. Then again, those had been mindless Darkspawn. Who knew what a spell like this could do to a being that actually had dreams?

Panicking, he forced himself to concentrate on clearing the air of all magic al effects – remembering the countless times he had done so in the past. At first, he feared that it wouldn't work; as King, he had not had to call upon his Templar powers in what seemed to be a century. But, the Maker was on his side. With a _whoosh_, the spell was driven back, leaving the room feeling colder than before. Zevran and Sten, rendered either paranoid or too sensitive to any disturbance by their leader's fragile state, cracked open the door and looked in. The elf looked concerned; Sten looked indifferent as usual.

"What was _that?_" the assassin asked in a whisper. Alistair simply shook his head and gestured that all would be explained later.

Sometime that night, the fever finally broke and Elissa opened her eyes with a groan. She had been confused and disoriented, even mistaking him for Duncan. Although she was not awake long, the three men were relieved. At least, for now, she was safe. All that remained was finding out the details of her capture. At least, that was a part of it. Zevran's appearance had been unexpected, but seeing Sten return to Ferelden was _disturbing_. Elissa had admitted to him once that Sten had mentioned something about the Qunari invading Ferelden. Was that the case? Was Sten sent back to investigate possibilities of an attack?

It was hard to believe. Could the Qunari invade the people he had once fought to protect? Could he go against the woman he had once been willing to give his life for? Although the giant warrior tried not to show outward signs of concern, Alistair knew that he was worried about Elissa's predicament. They'd traveled together for too long; it would have been impossible for Alistair to overlook his body language – the way he frowned more than usual, the way his eyes strayed to the Warden when he thought no one was looking.

"I'll be right out!" Elissa's voice brought him back to the present. After seeing her wearing Sten's enormous clothes, he couldn't wait to give her the extra clothing he had packed for himself to wear in case of harsh weather or some other form of accident. Though he was still much larger than she was, at least Alistair felt that his clothes wouldn't serve to trip her when she tried to walk. The last thing any of them needed was for her to break her neck.

The three of them had left her alone in the room to change, and had been waiting for her to emerge for nearly thirty minutes. Did it normally take that long to pull on a set of loose trousers and a tunic? He'd grown worried, but before he could knock a third time, she finally appeared. It was obvious that she was still very weak; she clung to the door frame to keep from falling. Yet, they had all collectively agreed that she needed to eat something to regain her strength, and she had been insistent on getting up and walking around. Her skin was grey and ashen. As she stumbled towards him, he caught her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling until she was pressed up against him.

He suddenly felt heat creeping up his neck; it was an inappropriate response. She was helpless and injured, for Andraste's sake. This was _not_ the time to reflect on how much he'd missed her – how he'd longed to smell the illusive scent of wildflowers in her hair; how he'd longed to feel the softness of her skin. To finally have her so close – close enough to where he could feel the puffs of her breath against his chest, close enough to where he could see the pulse fluttering at the base of her neck – nearly undid all the resolve he'd worked on building as King. He admitted to himself that he had never been able to rationally think when he was this close to her. His desire for her had always overridden any sense of propriety, duty, and reason. Time seemed to slow as he watched her breathe. To think that, just over a week ago he had believed her to be beyond his reach – that he had begun to think he would never see her again. His heart beat accelerated. This was real; she was right here – alive – in his arms. She regained her balance and looked up at him – and he was lost.

"Alistair…" she whispered suddenly, her eyes closing as she rested her head against his chest. "You're so warm…"

"That's hardly my fault alone…" he mumbled, clearing his throat. Her eyes popped open; she realized how tense he was and pushed herself back a little.

"Oh…Maker…I'm sorry, I…" Before she could finish, he leaned down and pressed his lips against hers.

For Ellisa, the world melted away, leaving nothing save the feel of his sensual mouth against her own, and the beating of his heart beneath her fingers. The kiss was as pure as always, teetering on the brink between being chaste and falling into the realm of fiery passion. It had always felt like Alistair was holding back, almost as if he was still afraid to be struck by lightning if he allowed himself to indulge in his desires too much. Perhaps it was this unwavering purity of his that had drawn her to him – the devotion in his every action and emotion. He did not spread himself too thin; there were a set of beliefs he held close to his heart, and he did not have it in him to betray those morals no matter what came his way. If he did something, he worked on it until the task was done, whether the chore was as menial as signing documents or as essential as fulfilling his duties as a Grey Warden.

"I've missed you…" he whispered, his voice low and husky. Although she was exhausted, weak, and so hungry she thought she would faint, her body instantly responded to the invitation. Without hesitation, she looped her arms around his neck, rising on her tip toes to press her chest against his. Even after months of being inseparable, their passion for each other had not dwindled in the least. There was a certain catch in his voice – that sweet insecurity and hesitation – that she loved the most. Sometimes, he still acted like that sheltered boy, fresh from the confines of the Chantry. It intrigued her, that a man who had seen so much darkness could remain so pure.

Her hands tugged at his shirt until she could reach under it, feeling his burning skin singe her fingertips as hot coals. She'd always loved how smooth it was. He hardly had any hair – only a silky trail leading from his navel down to places too wicked to imagine in polite company. To think that she could have died without touching this man one last time – it was humbling and terrifying. The doors of the Deep Roads returned to haunt her and she pushed the image away forcefully. As her fingers reached up to finally touch the center of his chest, he gently placed his hands on her wrists and broke their kiss.

"Wicked temptress…" was his regretful murmur. "If you were not recovering from a near-death experience, I might just drag you back into that room and – "

"And _what_?" she asked daringly. He raised an eyebrow at the challenge before his lips turned up in his trademark, irresistible lop-sided grin.

"And _you_ need to eat something before the Maker decides he made a mistake in sparing someone as reckless as you…" She pouted and he chuckled, pressing a hand to the small of her back and pushing her down the corridor. "Come, there is much to discuss. As you said yourself, there will always be plenty of time later…"

They walked through a long hallway before stepping out into a spacious room littered in places with the frozen remains of broken furniture and deteriorating walls. She shivered as a draft blew through a rather large hole in the ceiling and Alistair immediately pulled her against him. She opened her mouth to thank him when she was interrupted by a familiar voice.

"Alistair, what took you so long?"

She peaked around and saw Zevran leaning back lazily in a chair. As soon as he caught sight of her, he rushed to his feet, his eyes filling with the same, mischievous gleam she'd thought she'd never see again. Alistair had informed her that, although she had awakened a few times in the past two days, she had been too ill to truly recognize what was happening. Her memories were muddled, at best, but she had recalled that she'd seen Sten and Zevran – two people that should not have been there. Alistair had briefly explained Zevran's reasons for his appearance, but was still clueless as to what Sten was doing back in Ferelden.

"I see. You decided to _help_ our dear Warden with her garments," the assassin whispered furtively.

"I, that is…_no! _I'm not like _you_, Zevran!" Alistair stuttered helplessly. Elissa hid an affectionate smile behind her hand as she watched the King turn several shades of crimson. She decided to rescue him, even if it meant taking on the brunt of the elf's flirtatious ways.

"I'm afraid the delay was my fault entirely," she quipped, smiling. Zevran chuckled while Alistair lost his ability for speech entirely, finding some point on the wall much more interesting than their faces. A sound form behind them caught her attention, and she turned to find Sten sitting in the company of three giants. Qunari? She squinted, doing her best to make out their features. They had dark skin and unsettling eyes – variations of violet and pale gold. One of them had grey hair, tied back in braids much like Sten's. The other two, upon seeing her watching them, reached up and took off their hoods.

She gasped.

The sunlight filtering through the ceiling left no room for doubt – these Qunari had horns. They were smooth except for a few ridges that defined their shape. Two of them – the ones closer to the top of the head – were larger and more rounded, while the ones closer to the pointed ears were much smaller and more straight. They were black as ebony and shone brightly in the sun. She shuddered; an image of the Ogres they had fought flashed in her mind's eye. The horns were almost identical to theirs, only these were smaller and less menacing. Sten seemed to notice her sudden discomfort and stood, blocking her view of the two warriors.

"How do you feel, Kadan?"

She did her best to wipe all traces of fear from her face, knowing that Sten would not appreciate her looking at his kind in such a way.

"Good as new," she said with a strained smile. "Thanks to all of you." Her hand reached up to scratch the back of her head sheepishly. "I would probably still be lying in the snow if it wasn't for you, Sten." If he wasn't satisfied with her false bravado, he gave no sign. Instead, he merely nodded.

"Then you are ready to tell us what transpired before you were found."

She frowned. "I've told you all that I know…I was ambushed by a pair of Mages. One used blood magic, but I'm not certain of the other. I awakened several times, but they had me trapped in a Spirit Cage, so I can't remember much." At the mention of this particular spell, she heard Alistair growl. "The only detail I remember clearly was a man in red and a pair of eyes that seemed to glow beneath a hood." She raised a hand to her temple. "I wasn't quite myself, so I may be mistaken…"

"No," Zevran said suddenly. "You are not." He paused for a moment, looking hesitant, then continued. "I have met this man. He wore the same clothing as you describe – a cloak of brightest crimson, as red as blood. At the time I found it strange that he would wear something so vibrant when…" he gestured in the air.

"When he had just kidnapped the Queen," Alistair finished helpfully.

"Precisely."

Elissa looked thoughtful for a moment. Although she was curious about Sten's presence, she decided that asking him for the reasons of his return would have to wait. Right now, they had bigger problems.

"Spirit Cage is not a spell that the average Mage would know," Alistair said suddenly. "It took Morrigan months to perfect, and casting it comes with a great risk." His eyes traveled to Elissa's face and he gently ran a hand through her hair. "If they wanted you alive, they risked much by using it." His expression was angry. "I remember the effects it left behind were horrible." She put a comforting hand on top of his.

"It is illusion magic, is it not?" Zevran asked. Elissa looked grave.

"A branch of Spirit and Illusion magic that is not commonly studied. At least, that's what Morrigan told me. I doubt it is something that they teach in the Tower." Alistair looked pleased.

"That _confirms_ that the Mage is a Maleficar!"

"No," Ellisa responded firmly. "It confirms _nothing_. Spirit magic is not illegal." She looked miffed. "Remember, Alistair, being an Apostate does not automatically make a Mage a Maleficar." He looked skeptical, but nodded in agreement. "What this _does_ tell us, is that the Mage is very powerful. It makes me wonder how such a person could have operated this long without the Chantry knowing."

"Perhaps they are looking for him as we speak," Zevran pointed out. This time it was Alistair's turn to phrase denial.

"No. I would have been informed." The elf looked confused, and Elissa attempted to elaborate.

"Alistair and Wynne have been working towards building a stronger communication between the Templars and the Royal Palace. We thought it prudent that the Chantry report to _us_ whenever there was a loose Mage about."

"Smart," the assassin commented with a grin. "And insulting, politically speaking. I'm sure that Chantry was thrilled by the proposal."

Alistair huffed.

"They were quite opposed to the idea, but – as I'm sure you know – Elissa can be very persuasive." Elissa looked peeved while Zevran simply laughed. Even Sten looked slightly amused. They could all remember countless situations where their Warden had used intimidation to get her way. She cleared her throat and continued –

"I wonder if they hid it, though. I'm sure someone as powerful as this Mage escaping into the wild would be seen as quite an embarrassment, especially in light of the events of the past two years."

"They would not _dare_," Alistair bit out. "They are mandated _by law_ to report such matters to me. If I find out that they kept such vital information from me all these weeks…" His hand clenched into a fist. "Their _arrogance _and _ego_ could have cost us _days_ in finding you. Perhaps all of this could have been prevented entirely…"

At last, Sten spoke.

"What is past is long gone. We must focus on what is to be done now."

"Sten is right," Elissa interjected. "I don't know how I ended up alone in the snow, but it's safe to assume that the Mage must be looking for me. We can't afford to sit here and think about what _could _have been done differently."

Their conversation was interrupted when the door to the room flew open with a bang. Another Qunari stood there, making the doorway look like something out of a dollhouse. He ducked under the rotting wood, removing a hood covered by white ice. This warrior also bore horns and Elissa quickly looked down to avoid staring.

"_Leader, there is someone coming this way_," the giant said. He spoke in what Elissa assumed to be Qunari, although she could not be certain. She'd only heard Sten using a few phrases of it. Sten stepped forward and the two exchanged words. When he turned back to the expectant Warden, there was a crease marring his brow.

"You spoke of a man in red clothing?"

Trepidation snaked into her gut. She and Alistair nodded in unison. There was a frightening pause. Then –

"He is outside, and although the Ashaad is not familiar with the gestures of your kind, he believes that the man is claiming to surrender."

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**To be continued...**

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